


Her Touch Was Like Fire that Did Not Burn

by LaviniaLlywarch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Courtly Love, Cullen Smut, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV Cullen Rutherford, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 128,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaviniaLlywarch/pseuds/LaviniaLlywarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen Rutherford decided at eight years old that he was going to be a knight, even though he had no clue as to why knights were needed. </p><p>It was not a lesson he enjoyed learning. </p><p>Now, as Commander of the Inquisition, he atones for his foolishness and sin, struggling to rebuild himself as the man he should have been. As Thedas tears itself apart around them, Cullen and the Inquisitor--a cheerful pirate with scars of her own--find one another. Now he struggles to be worthy of himself and of his new love while they battle against an ancient evil.</p><p>She is a candle in the darkness, standing bare in a raging storm.</p><p>He must do everything in his power to keep that flame alight.</p><p>Work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I. Chapter 1.

"Cullen, if you need to—"

He surprises himself as much as he does her, turning back to her as soon as that damned runner has closed the door, pulling her to him—too rough?, he thinks, has he gone too far?—and kissing her hungrily.

For this one moment, duty, reports, the whole of Thedas be damned. It has been not just the excruciating long months since the Conclave that he has wanted this—her—but years - decades - his whole life. And now she is standing here, solid and real, saying those words…

*****

His vision was obscured by snow and ash, smoke and steam. The air reeked of death and unnatural magic. Surrounded by demons, the screams of terror and pain echoing through the valley, the former Knight-Commander was deadly efficient, a cold tactician leading his troops to cut down another wave of the twisted, horrible creatures that poured from the wound in the sky.

He sighed at the familiarity of the scene before him—How many times can the world tear itself apart?

He could still feel the traces of lyrium in his blood. He knew his decision to stop taking it, to break from the control of the Chantry, would not be easy, even if the Conclave had gone perfectly and peace somehow managed to get a foothold in Thedas. But that is not the world he could have ever expected to live in. Even so, he prayed to the Maker that his ability to serve would not be compromised. So far, he noted, felling a demon was no harder than it might have been at the height of his service in Kirkwall.

Before his last kill even hit the ground, he was aware that help had arrived. He raised his eyes to see the nearest tear of eerie green snap closed with a crackle of electricity. The former Seeker Pentaghast stood near the site of the rift, the prisoner in tow.

"Lady Cassandra," he greeted her. "You've managed to close the rift. Well done." He nodded his head slightly at the petite warrior and scrutinized the prisoner over her shoulder.

"Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner's doing."

The prisoner. She was dressed only in worn leathers and a shabby hauberk, a bloodied bastard sword gripped in her right fist, a battered wooden shield help awkwardly in her left. Could she really be what the whispers described? And which whispers, at that? Terrorist or scion? 

Yet another beautiful woman who could be either demon in disguise or timely savior…

"Is it?" His voice lost some of its edge for a moment before he steeled himself against the flicker of lightness that momentarily stirred when she met his gaze. "I hope they're right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here."

"You're not the only one thinking that," she responded, a hardness in her Marcher-accented voice.

"We'll see soon enough, won't we?" He didn't bother to soften his tone, not caring if he sounded cruel. There were innocent lives at stake. As there always are…

He turned again to his colleague. "The way to the Temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there."

"We best move quickly," Cassandra warned the prisoner. "Give us time, Commander."

He nodded, his mind immediately focused on ensuring the small party would have safe passage to what remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"Maker watch over you," he said wearily, studying the prisoner as he began to turn away. "For all our sakes."

The image of the prisoner's clenched jaw and determined (blue? gray?) eyes lingered in his mind for a moment as he turned back to his duties. She almost reminded him of Solona—the Solona who returned to a fallen Kinloch Tower as a Grey Warden, not the sweet young mage who had enchanted him without using any magic. 

But he had seen similar expressions on much less friendly faces - including one that looked uncannily like Solona's - and refused to discard his distrust until he saw proof.

*****

When the Inquisition's forces carried the prisoner's limp form back to Haven, they were murmuring in disbelief about her bravery facing down the massive pride demon despite her limited combat skills, and how she managed to stabilize the growing rift at the Temple before being knocked unconscious again by the strange magic. 

His remaining apprehensions about the prisoner began to thaw when he read Lady Cassandra's report of what was revealed at the ruined Conclave.

"Herald of Andraste" was a weighty title - he would prefer a real name to call her - but the hope she was inspiring in the shaken people around him, the same who’d passed along rumors that she was a terrorist and abomination just hours before, nearly justified it.

The next three days were relatively uneventful now that the Breach had been stabilized. Refugees fleeing from the intensified fighting between the rebel mages and rogue templars were slowly finding their way to the village. The "Herald" was recovering in a small home that had been left abandoned some time before the Haven chantry became the Inquisition's de facto headquarters. Apothecary Adan tended to her injuries and kept careful notes of her strange symptoms while the elven apostate watched over her, musing over the glowing mark that still remained on her hand.

Cullen spent the time conferring with Leliana and Cassandra and drilling the new recruits. And trying to avoid Chancellor Roderick. 

The cleric's voice immediately set the Commander's teeth on edge. His shrill accusations of heresy and demands that the prisoner be turned over, to him to be dragged to Val Royeaux for execution, intensified the headaches that were becoming common. The Herald, though still unconscious, had become a target for the Chantry old guard, and Roderick had apparently set his mind to leading the denunciation as a way to gain position within what remained of the Chantry. 

His vitriol only strengthened Cassandra's already intimidating resolve. The day the Herald awoke, the former Right and Left Hands of the Divine declared the Inquisition of Old reborn. Cullen took a special satisfaction in nailing the declaration to the chantry door right in front of Chancellor Roderick.

Their path was set, if the destination still a mystery.

*****

He cut short his conversation with Leliana and the Inquisition's recently-arrived ambassador and stood straighter, taller when Cassandra brought her into their makeshift war room. She apparently hailed from a noble family from the Free Marches, though her smirk and swagger spoke of a different past he found himself wondering about.

She might have made for a good soldier: tall, powerfully built. Yet unmistakably feminine even under the clumsy armor they'd cobbled together. An observation inappropriate of his position, he caught himself.

"You've met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces."

"It was only for a moment on the field. I'm pleased that you survived." 

He meant it. Even if she was not Andraste's Chosen, she had an easy demeanor and quiet strength about her that was making her a welcome presence amidst the chaos. And now that he was certain she was not a threat, he indulged his curiosity about the color of those intense eyes. 

Almost like the Waking Sea on a clear morning after a storm...

Cassandra wasted no time with pleasantries, turning abruptly from introductions to planning their next move. "I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good."

"Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help," Leliana stated.

"I still disagree." The thought of that much magic was... Kirkwall was still fresh, Kinloch barely faded around the edges. "The Templars could serve just as well."

Cassandra sighed. He knew she was as tired of this argument as he, but he would not let go of this. "We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark—“

"Might destroy us all." Images of his friends, crumpled and torn inside useless armor, came too quickly to mind. "The Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so—“

"Pure speculation," Leliana cut in.

"I was a Templar." The pain was audible, unhidden despite the presence of their new comrade. "I know what they're capable of."

"Unfortunately, neither group will speak to us yet." Josephine cut the tension with a lilting Antivan accent. "The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you specifically," she told the Herald.

"Well. That didn't take long." 

At least she had a sense of humor about all of this.

"Shouldn't they be busy arguing over who's going to become Divine?" Whatever faith Cullen had left in the Chantry after Kirkwall had been worn thin by Chancellor Roderick.

"Some are calling you the 'Herald of Andraste' and that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we, heretics, for harboring you."

"Chancellor Roderick's doing. No doubt," Cassandra sneered.

"It limits our options," Josephine continued. "Approaching the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question."

"Just how am I the Herald of Andraste?!"

"People saw what you did at the Temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard of the woman seen in the rift when we first found you," Cassandra explained. "They believe that was Andraste."

"Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading—“ Leliana interjected.

"—Which we have not..."

Cassandra and Leliana narrowed their eyes at one another, silently continuing an argument he had kept himself out of until now.

"The point is, everyone is talking about you," Leliana finished.

Cullen turned to the Herald, intent on relieving the tension and bringing the decision before the person it most affected. "It's quite the title, isn't it? How do you feel about that?"

"It's..." She sighed. "A little unsettling." It showed on her face, her storm-colored eyes growing dark. He hadn't intended to upset her.

"I'm sure the Chantry would agree," he responded jovially, offering her a wry grin.

He felt a bit of pride in seeing the clouds clear from her gaze.

"The people are desperate for some sign of hope," Leliana spoke. "For some, you're that sign."

"And to others," Josephine added, "a symbol of everything that has gone wrong."

"So, if I wasn't with the Inquisition..."

"Let's be honest, they would have censured us no matter what." He couldn't let her blame herself for the Chantry's tantrum.

"And you not being here isn't an option," Cassandra said with finality.

"There is something you can do," Leliana offered. "A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable."

"Why would someone from the Chantry help a declared heretic?"

"I understand she's a reasonable sort," Leliana smirked. "Perhaps she doesn't agree with her sisters. You will find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands, near Redcliffe."

"Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition's influence while you're there." Even without the whole Herald business, Cullen was certain she could bring a lot of goodwill their way.

"We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley," Josephine agreed. "And you're better suited than anyone to recruit them."

"In the meantime, let's think of other options." Cassandra turned to her colleagues. "I won't leave this all to the Herald."

She rode out that morning with Cassandra, the strange elven hermit called Solas, and Varric, who Cassandra had dragged to the Conclave when she and Cullen left Kirkwall.

*****

Cullen threw himself into training and preparing the green but enthusiastic young men and women flocking to their camp. The reports coming in from the Hinterlands had been accompanied by a slow but steady trickle of new recruits eager to pledge their services and loyalties to the Inquisition. With any luck, they would at least know which end of the sword to grip before they were called to service. 

Bales of herbs and leathers, and crates of iron and drakestone followed not long after they received word that the Herald and her companions had established a second camp in the area and would be returning to Haven to recuperate after nearly a fortnight of battling not only rogue Templars and rebel mages, but bandits and demons.

He was happy to see that their new fellow was unharmed, or at least still in one piece, when they returned to the village near sunset. She dismounted her horse easily and led it silently to the stables. The others avoided eye contact, not even Varric commenting, as she wandered back to her cabin.

"What happened? Is everything alright?" he asked Cassandra when she joined him near the soldiers' tents.

"She... did well." Her words were more carefully chosen than Cullen had come to expect from her. "This was all a bit difficult for her, though. It's nothing like the life she knew before the Conclave."

He scoffed. "That's to be expected. Nobles aren't typically accustomed to much more than bloodless reports of battle."

Cassandra glared at him. "Ashara has seen and experienced more than you'd expect, Commander. She is not a gilded flower too delicate to exist outside of a palace. But even I struggle to accept the things we have seen these last days."

"Ashara?"

"Lady Trevelyan. The Herald."

Pretty name.

"You two are friends now?" The thought of the Seeker and the Herald giggling like his sisters amused him.

"And what of it? We were together almost constantly for several days, and we... have much in common."

He often forgot that this formidable woman was herself of noble birth.

"You should not be so quick to dismiss her. Her value to the Inquisition goes beyond the mark or her noble name. She acts fearlessly despite everything, and is learning quickly how to handle herself on the field."

He massaged the ubiquitous knot at the base of his neck as Cassandra walked off. He certainly wasn't dismissing Lady Trevelyan - Ashara. In fact, her face had come to mind repeatedly while she was away. He had worried about her safety in the midst of the civil war being waged in the Hinterlands, and found himself more than a little curious as to how a noblewoman seemed to be carrying herself so stoically after what she must have seen at the Conclave. And was still trying to decide what color her eyes were.

*****

The nightmares awoke him well before dawn. He knew there was no chance of getting more sleep before the village came to life and duty called, so he dragged himself to his feet and began strapping his armor back on over the leathers he'd fallen asleep in only a few hours before. 

Now that Josephine had joined them and Cassandra had returned from the Hinterlands, he had relocated to a tent alongside those of the soldiers. It was more appropriate. And the cold was almost welcome as the withdrawal symptoms began to intensify.

As he finished attaching his poleyns and greaves, he thought he heard the sound of someone being sick not far from his tent. He'd have to watch the recruits at morning drills, see who else had clearly been at the tavern too late last night. He'd been clear with them that they were expected to conduct themselves as soldiers of the Inquisition, not mercenaries or volunteers.

He stepped out into the open air. There was a dark shape against the snow, maybe a couple hundred feet away. As his eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn light and the figure stood, before doubling over to retch again, he realized it was a woman dressed in black leather breeches and a corselette. A spy? Unsure how to react, he approached slowly, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"You, there!"

She looked up and caught his eye. It was her.

"Herald? Ah... Lady Trevelyan?" 

He quickened his step. What was wrong? No one had seen her leave her cabin since she'd returned, not even for the evening meal. Was she ill? Had she been poisoned?

He reached her side and could see by the moonlight reflected off the snow that she was flushed. And... steaming?

"Oh. Commander. Um. Hi."

She tried to stand up too quickly and stumbled. He reached out, grabbing her shoulders to stabilize her, looked her over for signs of injury or illness. It didn't seem like she had been drinking. 

He could feel her warmth through the leather of his gloves. She was shaking, wheezing a little, her chest heaving. The last detail accentuated by the fact that she was barely covered - her bodice was little more than a breast band, revealing her abdomen and the lines of a complicated tattoo that wrapped across her waist and ended somewhere below the waistband of her tight leather breeches… 

Realizing the direction of his thoughts, he released his grip hurriedly.

"Are you okay? What happened?" He looked around frantically for signs of an attacker or anything that might explain why she was out here, alone, clearly reacting to something.

"I- No, no! Nothing's wrong. I just..." She sighed heavily. "I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd try to exhaust myself until I had no choice but to sleep, and I could certainly get more accustomed to long distances and this damnably cold air, but it hasn't worked so far. The Crossroads..."

...She was steaming. "Have you been out here running? For how long?"

She nodded. "Honestly, I'm not sure. You don't keep track when you're being chased. Even if it's in your head."

Didn't he know it...

She looked down. "What we saw - what we did in the Hinterlands… I can't get it out of my head. For whatever else I've done in my life, this... I... I killed someone. Another person. People. I killed a lot of people." 

She double over and retched again, dry-heaving and shaking violently.

He was flooded with sympathy and placed a hand gently on her back between her well-muscled shoulders. He remembered his first failed Harrowing. Even with all the training and mental preparation, there was no way to anticipate that feeling. And she was no soldier, no Templar.

"I understand," he said softly. "It's not an easy thing to do. And I can't say it... gets much easier."

She looked up at him, locking onto his eyes.

They're silver in this light...

She smiled weakly. "Thank you, Commander. I'm sorry you had to see this... display."

"Not at all." He helped her stand upright again and pushed locks of honey and copper-colored hair from her eyes. "You didn't ask to be part of this war, and we've thrown you into the middle of it. It's a lot to take in, even without the fighting. And killing."

Her hand gripped his and held it in place on her shoulder. "And I will see this through. Whatever it takes. You have my word." 

The sudden change in tone from vulnerable and self-doubting to confident and earnest was remarkable.

He caught himself gazing at her with admiration and something he couldn't yet name, and dropped his hands from her shoulders quickly, clearing his throat.

She breathed out a laugh. "It's okay, Chantry boy. You didn't do anything wrong helping me stay upright. I'd probably have collapsed into the nearest snowdrift and been done with if you hadn't. Your touch saved my life, my knight," she added with a dramatic flourish.

He couldn't make eye contact.

She glanced down at herself. "Ah. Yes." Another laugh. "I'm guessing I look damn near naked to a Fereldan, yeah?"

That was part of it, at least. He wasn't going to tell her that if he didn't force himself to now, he'd probably never stop looking at her.

"Sorry. Again." She chuckled. "And, honestly, now that I'm not running my arse off, I probably should have put on a little more before coming out here. I'm just used to a different kind of climate, I guess. And lifestyle... Ha! I'm sure Cassandra or your spymaster Leliana told you about me, yeah?"

So he had been right that she had a different past than the noble name implied.

"No, I... I haven't heard anything about you, really, Lady Trevelyan. Ah, that is, beyond your name and that you're from Ostwick." 

She's cold. Offer her your cloak, Rutherford.

Another short laugh. "Well, I was from Ostwick but I haven't really seen much of the Marches in the last ten years or so. Not even a Grand Tourney." She hugged herself, goosebumps obvious in the silvery light. "And don't call me Lady Trevelyan. Please. The last person to call me that without getting hit was my Admiral, and that only under... erm... particular circumstances. I think she got a kick out of bedding a noble, honestly."

His face must have shown some of his surprise and embarrassment: she laughed again and slapped at him with the back of her hand.

"Mind out of the gutter, Chantry boy! Besides, she's in my past and that was never going to go anywhere. Not that I wouldn't take up again with another woman... I just prefer men. And, well, one at a time." She snorted. "I mean, one at a time like..." She sighed. "You know what I mean."

It took him a moment to catch up with whatever it was she was implying. His face went redder than an embrium bloom. Thank the Maker it was still dark, and the fur of his mantle covered most of his face when he lowered his head.

His cloak! He quickly slid it off his shoulders to offer it to her. "You must be cold, my Lady! Please..."

She took the cloak with a look of gratitude and wrapped it tightly around herself. "Thank you, but I warned you about calling me that." She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head toward him in a mock threat.

"Of course, my - I'm sorry, what would you prefer to be called?" Even though Cassandra had already told him, he wanted to hear her say it, to be told it was okay to call her by her given name.

"Ashara."

He nodded at her. "Cullen."

"I know."

"I mean, you should call me Cullen. If I am to call you by your given name..."

She smiled. "I'm just teasing you, Chantry boy. Cullen."

He really liked how his name sounded on her tongue...

"Um. We should... Get you back to the village so you can try to get a little sleep before the others start begging your attention." 

Could she hear his reluctance to part from her?

She looked toward the lightening horizon. "You're probably right. And I’m already over-sharing and I haven’t had a drop of wine. Walk with me, though? I don't want to give up the cloak yet, and you've been nice to talk to."

His breath caught in his throat. She was enjoying his company. ...Even if it was just to tease him.

"Of course, Ashara."

She smiled again - Maker... - and began moving back toward the gate.

"So, yeah, after dealing with my family trying to increase their fortunes by marrying their youngest off to some stuffy suitor twice my age, I ran away. My older sisters always teased that I'd end up marrying some Rivaini pirate. So I thought, why not? Spent the last ten years or so mostly at sea. Left that bastard the first chance I could, though. Not that we actually got married, mind. I wasn't that dumb. 

“Isabela - my Admiral - " Another smile. "She showed up at just the right time. Took everything she could get her hands on and let me join her crew. We've been sailing together off and on since. ...Or had been."

"What? Really?!" 

The same Isabela that ran around with Hawke? That might be where she got that swagger...

"This is why I'm surprised they hadn't told you yet. When people find out the youngest daughter of holier-than-thou Bann Trevelyan of boring old Ostwick ran off with a pirate, they tend to spread the tale. Out of disbelief or malice, I don't really care... stuck-up, self-important prigs..."

She spoke up again after a few paces. "I heard about the Conclave shortly after we put in at Denerim. My favorite cousin - the only one I bothered writing to after I left - was a Templar. Lots of Trevelyan Templars. I'd heard she would be at the Conclave. I went to see if I could... make sure she was okay..." She trailed off.

"Ashara, I'm sorry..."

"No need, Cullen. We'll find out who's behind all of this and I will personally kick their ass into the Fade... But thank you."

She gave him a brief hug when he left her at the door of her cabin. He walked back to his tent simultaneously hating that she'd called him "Chantry boy", and chastising himself for thinking about her as anything other than a colleague when he needed to be focused on the Inquisition.


	2. Part I. Chapter 2.

She must have finally gotten some sleep. Or at least she stayed inside her cabin long after the village came alive with the business of requisitions, scout reports, and training. He didn't see her again until almost midday when she approached the training area. She was dressed in full armor again, and had returned her golden hair to her usual complicated braids. She showed no sign of her sleepless night and rough, too-early morning. 

He instructed his lieutenant to continue drilling the soldiers and turned to acknowledge her as she sidled up alongside him.

"We've received a number of recruits. Locals from Haven and some pilgrims. None made quite the entrance you did."

"At least I got everyone's attention."

She certainly had his. 

"That you did." 

He couldn't linger over her now even if he wanted to, and strode through the camp, trying to pretend the almost intimate exchange of that early morning hadn't happened. "I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the mage uprising. I saw first-hand the devastation it caused. Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause. And now it seems we face something far worse." He scanned a report handed to him by a runner.

"The Conclave destroyed. A giant hole in the sky... Things aren't looking good." 

Simply put.

"Which is why we're needed." There's a bit of green in her eyes too... "The Chantry lost control of both Templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition can act while the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be part of that. There's so much we can - " He cut himself off before the enthusiasm carried him away. "Forgive me. I doubt you came here for a lecture."

She made the smallest step toward him. "No, but if you have one prepared, I'd love to hear it."

Did she really just say that? He had to glance away and bite back hard on the boyish grin fighting to break through. "Another time perhaps," he laughed, his voice betraying his appreciation of the attention.

She glanced up with a playful smile and caught his eye.

"I, uh..." Maker's breath... The image of her wrapped in his mantle in the pre-dawn light, flushed face haloed in wild strawberry blonde hair and the furry mantle of his cloak, wouldn't leave his mind. The strength, vulnerability, and humor playing alternately on her face during their brief moment...

He cleared his throat. Not now, Rutherford. "There's still a lot of work ahead."

"Commander, Ser Rylan has a support on our supply lines." Another runner approached. 

Duty called, as ever.

"As I was saying..." He indulged himself by reciprocating her flirtatious grin and tone as he turned back to business.

*****

She was back at his side later that afternoon.

"Back for the rest of that lecture?" He couldn't believe how easily it came out.

Her voice was full of laughter. "Well, maybe later. I was hoping you could help with something..."

He raised his eyebrows at that. "Oh?" 

What could she possible want from me?

"Well. Heh... I'm sure you've heard by now that I'm utter shite with a sword and shield. I can swing a blade as well as the next runaway noblewoman turned pirate, but before now most of my fighting was more... hand-to-hand. Or stab-and-run in a few cases."

He wasn't sure he wanted to know about those few cases, but he was a bit amused by the thought of Ashara swinging through the rigging of a ship to get the drop on some unsuspecting fool like in the adventure stories he'd loved as a boy.

"Either way, I'm here for the long-haul. Thought it might be a good idea to figure out how to not get killed. There's only so much elfroot in Thedas, and I can't have a healer chasing me around everywhere if I'm going to be of any real help to the Inquisition. ... And if I'm going to have to kill more people, I'd rather make the whole violent death part go as fast as possible..."

She had been doing a pretty convincing job of acting like her earlier experiences in the Hinterlands hadn't been bothering her since almost immediately after she'd mentioned it. She really would have made for a good soldier. 

And he bet she had gotten along well with Isabela with that wry sense of humor.

"Are you asking me to teach you?"

"If you wouldn't mind. But I'd rather it not be with the other soldiers. I spoke with Cassandra about it, and she thinks it wouldn't do for the soldiers to see their ‘Herald’ fumbling around like a drunken nug. I know you're a very busy man, but I'm also pretty sure you don't sleep much either..."

Why didn't Cassandra offer to teach her?

"Not that it has to be in private or anything 'Inappropriate'. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me."

The thought of being alone with her wasn't an uncomfortable one, necessarily...

"No!"

She jumped back at his quick response. "Oh, I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"No! Ah..." He rubbed at the ache at the base of his neck. "I mean, yes, I would gladly help. It doesn't make me uncomfortable."

"Good." Laughter danced at the edge of her voice. "Tonight? We could start after the evening meal?"

"Of course."

"I'll prepare myself for you." She wiggled her eyebrows at him and walked away.

Maker, why did she have to phrase things that way?

*****

When they met up in the war room later, she had changed from her buff-colored leathers and armor back into the black breeches she had been wearing that morning, but - thank the Maker - was wearing a close-fitting wool chemise under a leather doublet. Her face was clothed with a sheepish smile and questioning eyes.

"Are you sure I'm not putting you out? You've much more important things to do than this."

"More important than keeping the Herald of Andraste alive?"

She laughed and the shyness fell from her face. "Joking aside, I am grateful, Commander."

Her earnestness touched him.

"If you're anywhere near as abysmal as you seem to think you are, I owe it to the entire Inquisition to at least show you how to hold a shield."

As flustered as her flirting made him, he knew himself to be a qualified instructor. While Cassandra may be just as skilled at combat, he would feel more confident in Ashara's safety by providing his tactical expertise along with the more immediate lessons. She was being looked upon as a leader, after all. She would need to know how to assess the ever-changing conditions of battle while maintaining her own defense.

She narrowed her pretty eyes at him and smirked. "Well then. I guess we better get started, yes?"

"Indeed." He tossed her a blunted blade and motioned toward the practice shield leaning against the wall. "Let's see what you've got. Attack me."

"Really?"

He shrugged. "Why not? It helps if I know what you're doing wrong before I start correcting it."

"Oh, you're on."

They dueled and drilled for hours. She learned quickly, and didn't seem to tire even when he could see that her shirt was soaked through with sweat and clinging to her arms, her breath ragged. It reminded him of himself as an Initiate so many years ago, passionate and determined to learn everything he could about being a Templar. And the instruction allowed him to be near her without the tension of more personal thoughts.

The sun had long since faded when he called an end to her lesson. She wouldn't retain much more than he'd already shown her, and her body would be sore in the morning. He didn't want to risk wearing her out if she had to return to the field the next day.

"You're not nearly as bad as you think," he reassured her, offering her his water skin.

"Ha! No need to go easy on me, Commander. I know when I'm bested." She drank with slow, measured sips. She certainly wasn't new to intense physical exertion...

"I was a Templar, my Lady. You should compare yourself to yourself. Not someone with twenty years with a blade."

Her eyes were fixed on his. "What did you call me?"

His mind reeled for a moment. What had he done?

"Ashara, Commander." She drew out his title with exaggeration. "My name is Ashara."

He smirked. "I will call you Ashara when you call me Cullen." Seeing her so worn out from his own athleticism made it very tempting and almost easy to tease and play with her for the moment.

She laughed, realization that she'd been using his title showing on her face. "My apologies, Ser Cullen."

A smile sparked his features for a moment and they both fell silent. Guard down, his mind wildly explored the other ways he could bring this remarkable woman to such a state of exhaustion and ease. He quickly caught himself indulging in such inappropriate thoughts, though, and felt the return of the knot in his neck.

"So..." She looked away as well. "Why did you join the Templars?"

An easier subject, but he shifted his weight back and forth, scuffing his boots on the floor as he spoke. He still felt a sense of pride and determination discussing that decision, no matter how vilely the Chantry and his fellow Templars—and he, himself—had betrayed that idealism. "I could think of no better calling than to protect those in need. I used to beg the Templars at our local chantry to teach me. At first they merely humored me, but I must have shown promise. Or at least a willingness to learn. The knight-captain spoke to my parents on my behalf. They agreed to send me for training. I was thirteen when I left home."

"Thirteen - That's still so young!" He imagined he heard sympathy in her voice.

It was young, but Cullen couldn't remember ever wanting anything other than to play the role of protector, even of his annoying big sister. He'd always been larger than the other boys his age and clung to a deep sense of justice.

"I wasn't the youngest there. Some children are promised to the Order at infancy. Still I didn't take on full responsibilities until I was eighteen. The Order sees you trained and educated first."

"What about your family - did you miss them?" Her voice held an odd amount of compassion for someone who had been cursing her own relations less than a day before.

"Of course. But there were many my age who felt the same." Most of them probably dead now. "We learned to look out for one another."

He still felt an odd guilt for being the only one to make it through Kinloch. And then to survive the rebellion at the Gallows...

"What was a typical day for a Templar?"

He scoffed bitterly. "'Typical'... The last time I was in a Circle was right before it fell apart. Nothing was 'typical'."

"Before that then." She seemed genuinely interested and careful not to touch on anything too personal.

"Certain rituals require a full guard. A mage's Harrowing, for instance. I've attended a few." He could still remember the feel of the great sword in his hand as Solona entered the Fade... "Most of the time you merely maintain a presence - on patrol or in the Circle. Ready to respond if needed. Mages pretend to ignore that presence. But they are watching you just as closely."

She was watching him rather closely herself. It was hard to ignore. "What does Templar training involve?"

"There is weapon and combat training. Even without their abilities, Templars are among the best warriors in Thedas."

"I've noticed." Another flirtatious smile.

He released a short laugh, glanced away before continuing. "Initiates must also memorize portions of the Chant of Light, study history, and improve their mental focus." 

Lessons he was grateful for with such distracting presence on hand.

"Did you enjoy your training?"

"I wanted to learn everything... If I was giving my life to this, I would be the best Templar I could." And he would do the same for the Inquisition.

"You were a model student?" She sounded almost like she was teasing him, like she knew the power of a pretty face to distract him.

"I wanted to be," he laughed. He really wasn't a "Chantry boy". Not like that. "I wasn't always successful. Watching a candle burn down while reciting the Chant of Transfigurations wasn't the most exciting task." Her eyes crossed in mock boredom. "I admit, my mind sometimes wandered."

...Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever...

What was that look in her eyes?

"Do Templars take vows? 'I Swear to the Maker to Watch All the Mages' - that sort of thing?" Her eyelids hung low, and the edges of her mouth were turned up in something akin to, but not quite, a smile.  
Now what was she getting at?

"There's a vigil first. You're meant to be at peace during that time, but your life is about to change." Maker, how he'd squirmed in the armor, knowing what was to come. "When it's over, you give yourself to a life of service. That's when you're given a philter - your first draught of lyrium - and its power. As Templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen."

"A life of service and sacrifice... Are Templars also expected to give up... physical temptations?"

What?!

"Physical? Why... Why would you - ?" Oh. He cleared his throat. 

"That's not expected. Templars can marry - although there are rules around it, and the Order must grant permission. Some may choose to give up more to prove their devotion, but it's, um, not required."

That almost-smile had become a bit wolfish. Maker, she was gorgeous. "Have you?"

She couldn't possibly be asking him these things. She would transform to a desire demon and he would wake up in a cold sweat, alone in his tent, any moment now.

"Me? I... um... " Maybe she really is interested... "er... No! I've taken no such vows." Did he sound too hopeful? "Maker's breath - can we speak of something else?" He fought the urge to run away.

"That's... all I wanted to know." She smirked and turned to leave. "Thank you."

He could have sworn she swayed her full hips even more than usual as she walked away.

*****

He arose after sunrise the next day, having slept longer than he had since the Conclave. If his nightmares had shown themselves, it was between uncharacteristically pleasant dreams of warm sun shining on golden curls, and soft skin over elegant, feminine muscle. As he surfaced he realized to whom those lovely traits belonged, and whose name was on his lips. He sat up, forcing himself to awake fully and realized he was hard; the image of her chest, rising and falling rapidly as she panted and whined his name clung insistently to his waking mind.

Maker's breath, how could he face her at the morning meal after that?

His reprieve didn't even last that long, though. When he stepped into the crisp morning air, Ashara was already hacking at the practice dummy beside Cassandra's mutilated target. She had changed into a clean chemise—a soft gray that set off the pink flush in her cheeks and probably complimented her eyes—and had re-plaited her unruly curls, but looked just as she had the night before when she parted from him after asking about the state of his chastity. 

She was very obviously trying to remember the pointers on stance and shield positioning he'd given her last night, and Cassandra stood nearby, reminding her to keep her shield arm up. The Herald already looked a stronger soldier than some of the recruits who'd joined back in Kirkwall.

And she'd been a pleasure to teach...

"Commander!" His reverie was broken by Cassandra calling to him.

"Yes, Lady Cassandra?" He approached slowly, trying to assert his Templar discipline over the urge to blush when he saw Ashara looking up at him.

"You've slept late...Are you well?" 

He waved a dismissive hand at her concern. She nodded.

"We will be returning to the Hinterlands today. The men you sent to build watchtowers near the Crossroads returned at first light and brought good news. Horsemaster Dennet has agreed to provide his assistance to the Inquisition. We thought it best to thank him personally for his aid to our cause. And Ashara is insisting we follow up on Leliana's lead about the Grey Warden in the area. We believe he is not too far from the Dennet lands. We will be leaving shortly and should return before dark. In the meantime, Leliana and Josephine have asked to speak with you about our next steps."

"Thank you, Lady Cassandra." He nodded, intending to leave as Cassandra turned on a heel and headed toward the stables, but stopped dead when Ashara spoke up.

"Thank you, Commander Cullen."

For what?

"Excuse me?"

Another of her soft, exhaled laughs. "For last night." A heartier laugh. "For the lessons, I mean. I hope we can meet up again tonight when I return? I think I've got basic blocking down, but I would love to learn some of the more offensive maneuvers I've seen Cassandra pull out there."

"Of course, Lady—Ashara. Anything you need."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Anything?"

Maker, why did he have to phrase it like that. Not that he wouldn't, but...

"Oh, don't go blushing on me, Chantry boy, or I'll never get out of here for looking at such adorableness." She began to back away toward where Cassandra had stopped with their mounts. "But, you know. Feel free to tell me if there's anything I can do for you." She winked and turned.

Thank the Maker he didn't have to respond. He wasn't sure he could form words, and certainly couldn't stop the smile that broke across his face as he watched her ride away. Surely she was just teasing him, but it felt good to receive such attentions regardless. Not that he could offer her much in return. Not yet, at least. 

But she was becoming a candle in the darkness.


	3. Part I. Chapter 3.

"I should get to know you better. We're working together, after all." She was leaning against the war table, ankles crossed, her practice sword and shield abandoned on the war table, covering Orlais.

"What would you like to know?" He took a long pull from his water skin, glad for the bonding moment but a little apprehensive as to where she might take the line of questioning. He still blushed thinking of where this had gone the night before.

"All right... Where are you from?"

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. He released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "I grew up in Ferelden, near Honnleath. I was transferred to Kirkwall shortly after the Blight. This is the first I've returned in almost ten years."

"You haven't seen Ferelden in ten years? Are you glad to be back?"

"I was not sorry to leave at the time. I did not expect to return." At least not alive. "Now—between the Divine's murder and the Breach—I've arrived to find nothing but chaos."

She offered him a sympathetic smile. "You were in Ferelden during the Blight? Did you fight Darkspawn?"

"No. I was stationed in Ferelden's Circle tower. The Circle had troubles of its own. I... remained there during the Blight." 

The images he battled every night flickered at the edges of his mind.

"What happened at the Circle tower?"

Even though he felt himself wanting to get closer to her, he was not yet prepared to open up about those long weeks. "Few who survived the Blight have fond memories of that time. I would prefer not to speak of it."

She did not pry, but immediately came around to another sore point. "What was Kirkwall like? Isabela - my Admiral - spent some time there while I was... off doing other things, and we never actually talked about it."

"While I was there, Qunari occupied then attacked the city, the viscount's murder caused political unrest, relations between mages and Templars fell apart, an apostate blew up the chantry, and the knight-commander went mad. Other than that, it was fine."

Her mouth was hanging open. "I know I can be a bit glib, but... That's a lot for one lifetime! You might be the unluckiest person I've ever met."

He barked a laugh, hoping the bitterness wasn't too obvious.

"What happened between Kirkwall's mages and Templars?"

"You were at the Conclave. You must have heard people speak of it." He didn't want to answer.

"Yes. But you were there." Of course she wasn't going to let him off that easily.

He sighed deeply and looked down, studying the pattern in the rug. "There was tension between mages and Templars long before I arrived. Eventually it reached a breaking point. There was fighting in the streets. Abominations began killing both sides. It was a nightmare..." And he knew from nightmares.

Her voice was soft. He didn't notice the hand on his vambrace. "What happened then?"

"The Templars should have restored order, but red lyrium had driven Knight-Commander Meredith mad. She threatened to kill Kirkwall's champion, turned on her own men. I'm not sure how far she would have gone. Too far."

"So you opposed her?"

He should have caught on so much sooner, gotten past his own biases against mages, the mental and emotional walls he'd built up. Hawke should not have had to take on so much, practically forcing him back into his humanity. "I stood with the Champion against her. In the end. But I should have seen through Meredith sooner."

"I'm sorry. It sounds like you carry a lot of this on your own shoulders."

He looked up and realized how close she stood, saw the compassion in her eyes. Ashara. That's the only name for that color. He released another heavy sigh.

"Do not concern yourself about me, Ashara. This is the path I chose. The Inquisition cannot undo the horrors of the past, but we have the ability to prevent things like that from ever happening again, to give Thedas a better future." He meant it, and he knew she would be able to help them achieve that.

"Still. No one should have to see a Blight, two Circle rebellions, and the mess that was Kirkwall. You've come through all of that a much more... whole man than I would expect many would. You're strong. I admire that."

She admires me...? He held her gentle gaze.

"I... thank you."

"Of course, Cullen." A moment of warm silence and she pushed off the war table. "Now. I should get some rest. It's been a long day. You should do the same."

She gave him one last smile before leaving. No inappropriate jokes, no innuendo. Just kindness. It felt to him like a caress.

*****

He lay awake for hours. Nothing new, but his usual concerns - Haven's defensibility, securing the necessary alliances, recruiting and training soldiers, the cause of the explosion at the Conclave, and, as always, the horrors he'd witnessed the past decade - were joined by an angst he hadn't felt in years.

She was beautiful, there was no denying that. And he saw the way the others looked at her—at least before they realized that she was the Herald of Andraste. Her athleticism and confidence captivated him. More than just a pretty face would, and had done when he was a younger man.

More than once, her humor ended a needless argument at the war table. She helped keep their spirits high when it would be so easy to just sink into despair. Her easy laugh had given him a needed boost too many times to count over the last few weeks.

She was flirtatious with everyone—Andraste preserve the man who encountered her and Isabela in a tavern—but she seemed to reserve something special just for him. Or at least that's how he imaged it when he dared. The gentle, sad smiles she gave him from time to time... the emotion and vulnerability she'd let him see that early morning... He knew she and Cassandra were growing close, but he wanted to think there was the chance of something different between them.

But it was a terrible idea. They bore heavy responsibilities and an uncertain future. A romantic dalliance would be an unnecessary distraction when they both needed to be ready for anything and everything at any given time. And he... He hadn't anything to offer her. The lyrium withdrawal symptoms were intensifying. His nightmares were getting worse at the same time. And who knew where all of that ended? What could he even say to her? She was noble-born. Sure, she'd abandoned all of that, had even refused to let Josephine profit the Inquisition through that connection, but she was certainly used to a much higher standard of living than he could offer. He had nothing outside of the Inquisition. His family had abandoned their farm in the Blight and he had spent the past twenty years in the Order. 

No. Any future with her just wasn't an option.

Still... The sound of her voice was as comforting as the Chant had at one point been...

But they were at war. She was the Herald. The future was more of a question than it had ever been, and it was up to them to do whatever it took to pull the pieces of the world back together.

Haven was a sitting duck should anyone attack. The village would go up like a tinderbox from a single fireball. Construction on the trebuchets would begin soon. Their army was coming along but was still far too small to be an effective force.

And they still hadn't been able to establish contact with either the Templars or mages. Until then, the Breach would remain, spreading rifts, demons, and chaos throughout Thedas...

...What sleep he did get was fitful and fevered, haunted and painful. As ever.

*****

His head was pounding after the morning meeting. The tension in his neck only made it worse. Ashara and her companions, now accompanied by a gruff but skilled Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall, were set to return from the Fallow Mire soon. They had hoped to locate and free a small band of Inquisition agents who had been captured, but had been unable to penetrate deep enough into the plagued swamps so far and needed to return to recuperate and reevaluate a new strategy to deal with the hordes of undead clawing out of the rank waters. He could admit to looking forward to seeing her, but the tensions rising in the village were dampening those positive thoughts.

He walked out of the chantry, right into a battle of words that was moments from becoming physical.

An ex-Templar was staring down a mage. "Your kind killed the Most Holy!"

"Lies! Your kind let her die!"

"Shut your mouth, mage!" The soldier made to draw his blade on the older man.

More of this nonsense? Cullen jumped in and blocked the man. 

"Enough!" He pushed the men apart.

"Knight-Commander..."

"That is not my title," the Commander sneered. "We are not Templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition!"

The men backed away, cowed by the reminder, and Chancellor Roderick sauntered into the middle of the scene. "And what does that mean, exactly?

"Back already, Chancellor? Haven't you done enough?" Of course the chancellor would be part of this mess.

"I'm curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its 'Herald' will restore order as you've promised." He was addressing the crowd as much as he was Cullen, another political stunt to undermine their work.

"Of course you are." He had no patience for this today. "Back to your duties! All of you!"

As the crowd dispersed, he saw Ashara approaching, a questioning look on her face.

"Mages and Templars were already at war," he offered by way of explanation. "Now they're blaming each other for the Divine's death."

She rolled her eyes.

"Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order," the chancellor cut in.

"Who, you? Random clerics who weren't important enough to be at the Conclave?" The words were calculated to cut the man trying to build up his own importance in the wake of tragedy.

"The rebel Inquisition and the so-called 'Herald of Andraste'? I think not."

"I don't know," she spoke up. "The Inquisition seems about as functional as any young family."

More than the Chantry can claim right now...

"How many families are on the verge of splitting into open warfare with themselves?" the Chancellor pressed.

"Yes, because that would never happen to the Chantry..."

He thought he heard her snort a laugh at that.

"Centuries of tradition will guide us. We are not the upstart, eager to turn over every apple cart."

She looked Cullen directly in the eyes, fire in her own. "Remind me again why you're allowing the Chancellor to stay?"

"Clearly your Templar knows where to draw the line."

They ignored him.

"He's toothless. There's no point turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth." Though it was becoming more tempting... "The Chancellor's a good indication of what to expect in Val Royeaux, however."

She sighed. "The mages and Templars are fighting even though we don't know what really happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?"

"Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine. If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so."

"Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat." The thought of the Chantry regaining political power by harming Ashara...

"You think nobody cares about the truth? We all grieve Justinia's loss."

"But you won't grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet."

"Well, let's hope we find solutions in Val Royeaux and not a cathedral full of Chancellors," she muttered.

"The stuff of nightmares!" He was grateful for her joke.

"Mock if you will! I'm certain the Maker is less amused."

"I will keep the peace here while you travel to Val Royeaux," he assured her.

She gave him one of her sympathetic expressions, but he didn't feel the hand she placed on his rerebrace as she walked past him and into the Chantry.

"You'd better prepare yourself for the blame you will be rightly assigned," Chancellor Roderick spat at her back.

Cullen fixed a leonine glare on the Chancellor, narrowing his amber eyes at the cleric. That was the end of the conversation.

*****

"Such a pleasant man, Chancellor Roderick. You're a hero for dealing with him all this time. How are you?"

He startled and looked up to see Ashara standing over him. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on her face.

"You seem to be pretty engrossed in that report."

"I..." He sighed and massaged his aching neck. "It's been a long day."

"I was hoping we could get another lesson in tonight before I head off to Val Royeaux in the morning."

"I really don't think..."

"Oh. I'll... I guess I'll see you later then?"

"I'm sorry, Ashara. I..." He sighed again. He couldn't lie to her and say he was okay. How could he tell her that he hadn't the strength to drill her on shield bashes and charging because his head was splitting in two and he could barely focus his eyes without explaining the withdrawal? She would ask questions, if only to try to help.

"Cullen, are you okay? Andraste's tits, you look like you're going to collapse!"

He might... "It's nothing to worry you, Ashara. Please. I just... haven't slept well." At least he wasn't lying.

"I'm sorry, Cullen. You should call it quits for the night. Get some rest. We need our Commander at his best." She was smiling, her right hand on his pauldron. Later, he would realize how close she'd been standing and curse himself for not even mustering a smile for her.

Cassandra approached cautiously as Ashara wandered off.

"The withdrawal is giving you trouble?" It was and wasn't a question. The Seeker knew the signs of lyrium withdrawal, and had gotten to know Cullen almost as well in the months they'd spent together.

He sighed. "It's merely a headache. I'll be fine after I get some rest."

"It must be more than a simple headache for you to spurn Ashara's attentions. I have noticed you two spending quite a lot of time together when we are here."

"Are you implying that I have been untoward with the Herald, Lady Cassandra?"

"I do not mean to accuse. She has been good for you. And I think you can be good for her. Both of you seem more at ease when you've spent time together. She has had this thrust upon her and needs all the support she can get. And with the withdrawal taking hold, it is good for you to... have a source of comfort."

"It's not like that—“ 

"Like what, Commander?"

He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't need her commenting on his personal life on top of everything else.

Her voice softened to the extent it ever did. "I am merely saying that she seems to make you happy. That might ease your symptoms. And with all we face, it would be wise to seize upon what happiness you can find. Do not waste that opportunity."

She walked away then, leaving him somewhat bemused. He had caught a glimpse of some of the... "literature" Cassandra liked to read, but he had not expected her to be so sentimental even as she watched over his withdrawal.

Still, there was work to be done and he was in no state to be entertaining such frivolities.

*****

"I'm more concerned that this won't actually solve any problems." The Herald didn't seem to care that by following Mother Giselle's advice to go to Val Royeaux to speak with the clerics she could be walking into danger.

"I agree," he spoke up. "It just lends credence to the idea that we should care what the Chantry says."

Cassandra ended the debate. "I will go with her. Mother Giselle said she could provide us names. Use them," she directed Leliana.

"But why? This is nothing but a -"

"What choice do we have, Leliana? Right now, we can't approach anyone for help with the Breach." She directed an obstinate glare at the Inquisition's officers. "Use what influence we have to call the clerics together. Once they are ready, we will see this through."

So it was decided. Cassandra and Ashara rode out as soon as their mounts were prepared.


	4. Part I. Chapter 4.

They returned with a regal enchanter, an anarchist elf, and more questions than answers.

He was only mildly surprised by the relief he felt when Cassandra and Ashara walked into the Chantry. The reports from Leliana's agents in the city had not been heartening. The actions of his former brethren were baffling. 

It was only logical to be worried about their safety. It had nothing to do with his growing affections for Ashara.

"It's a shame the Templars have abandoned their senses, as well as the capital," he remarked.

"At least we know how to approach the mages and Templars now," Ashara ventured wearily, headed toward the war room.

"Do we?" Cassandra responded, "Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember..."

"True... He has taken the Order somewhere... But to do what?" That Leliana didn't have any leads was particularly discomfiting. "My reports have been... very odd..."

"We must look into it. I'm certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker." He forced himself to sound more confident than he felt.

"Or the Herald could simply go to meet the mages in Redcliffe, instead," Josephine suggested.

"You think the mage rebellion is more united? It could be ten times worse." Despite his evolving attitude towards mages, he still wasn't comfortable with the thought of bringing so many apostates into their camp.

"I could at least find out what the mages want."

They all stopped and looked to the woman who was gradually becoming the center of their movement.

"No doubt what they've always wanted," the former Seeker drawled. "Support for their cause."

Josephine countered, "We shouldn't discount Redcliffe. The mages may be worth the risk."

"They are powerful, Ambassador. But more desperate than you realize," Cassandra countered.

"So it'll be dangerous." Ashara's voice was growing wearier. "I've been in danger since I walked out of the Fade."

He looked up at her with a sense of admiration and pride. She had been in danger beyond what he could ask any non-soldier to face, yet never quailed at a challenge. He was glad to have her at his side.

"If some of the rebel mages were responsible for what happened at the Conclave—“ Cassandra cautioned before being cut off by Josephine.

"The same could be said about the Templars."

"True enough," he spoke up. "Right now, I'm not sure we have enough influence to approach the order safely."

"The Inquisition needs agents in more places," Cassandra agreed. "That's something you could help with, Ashara."

"In the meantime," their Ambassador added, "we should consider other options."

The discussion was over for now.

*****

A raven arrived the evening after the party rode out for Redcliffe, carrying a scroll with his name written in a hand he recognized from her reports as Ashara's. Leliana handed it to him, unopened, an eyebrow raised in... maybe it was amusement? Skepticism? Curiosity? He'd never been able to read that woman's face.

He unrolled the thin parchment and found just a sprig of elf root leaves. Odd...

The next evening - they should be in Redcliffe by now - another raven brought him a blood lotus blossom rolled in parchment.

Two days later, a third strange delivery of a small embrium bloom.  
None of the herbs was accompanied by a note of any kind. Beyond his name on the outside of the scrolls, of course. He didn't quite know what to make of the gifts, but kept them carefully rolled in a small hip pocket along with the coin his younger brother Branson had given him over twenty years ago.

*****

He resisted the urge to approach her the moment they rode back into camp, the sun just beginning to dip below the peaks of the Frostbacks.  
She needs rest and probably wants to bathe, and - the thought of her soaking languorously in a tub of steaming water, her braids undone, curls tumbling—

Stop it! 

Maker, where did that come from?

Her brow was furrowed, the corners of her mouth drawn in, gaze turned inward. She was deep in thought, and it appeared that the thoughts weren't entirely pleasant. As she passed the training grounds in her return from the stables, she waved a distracted hand for him to follow, not making eye contact, still wrestling with something in her mind.

By the time they reached the Chantry doors, Cassandra had fetched Leliana from her post. The Inquisition gathered in the war room and listened in shock as Ashara and Cassandra recounted the events at Redcliffe.

"You mean, those skulls you've been using to find the shards are..." Josephine gasped.

"Tranquil. Yes." Her tone was flat.

"Maker's breath..."

"We can't just let this happen. I can't. Whatever the rebel mages have done, there are innocent children among them. Apprentices and enchanters who wanted nothing to do with the rebellion, only to be safe. And they're killing the Tranquil!" Ashara drove a fist into the table, striking the map right where Redcliffe was marked. He chastised himself for being amused by her aim.

"I was there," Cassandra confirmed. "Something is off."

"What do you propose we do?" the spymaster asked.

"We don't have the manpower to take the castle. Either we find another way in, or give up this nonsense and go get the Templars." It was true, no matter his opinion of mages.

"Redcliffe is in the hands of a Magister. This cannot be allowed to stand," Cassandra retorted.

"The letter from Alexius asked for the Herald of Andraste by name," Josephine reminded them. "It's an obvious trap."

"How nice of him to reach out to me personally."

Why must she be so flippant about this?

"A Tevinter Magister controls Redcliffe," - anger almost sounded in Leliana's voice - "invites us to the castle to talk, and some of us want to do nothing?" She directed a pointed glare at him.

"Not this again." Josephine's voice was dark.

"Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Fereldon. It has repelled thousands of assaults." He turned to Ashara. "If you go in there, you'll die. And we'll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts." He closed his eyes as soon as he said it, knowing how crass and uncaring it must sound to her. But he must put his duty to the Inquisition—to all of Thedas—ahead of his own feelings for her, even if that meant possibly hurting her feelings now.

He opened them again, catching the inscrutable expression playing across her features.

"I won't allow it." Did she hear how his voice betrayed those feelings he was trying to suppress?

"And if we don't even try to reach Alexius, we lose the mages," Leliana challenged. "And leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep."

"Even if we could assault the keep, it would be for naught," Josephine argued. "An Orlesian Inquisition's army marching into Fereldon would provoke a war! Our hands are tied."

Cassandra looked up. "The Magister--"

"--Has outplayed us," Cullen finished.

"We can't just give up," the Herald appealed. "There has to be something we can do!"

"We cannot accept defeat now. There must be a solution." Cassandra was stubborn.

"Do we have to go through the front door?" Ashara glared at the map.

"Wait..." A flash of memory in Leliana's eyes. "There is a secret passage into the castle. An escape route for the family. It's too narrow for our troops, but we can send agents through."

"Too risky. Those agents would be discovered well before they reach the Magister," he rebutted.

"That's why we need a distraction," Leliana responded. "Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly."

It had promise.

"Focus their attention on Ashara while we take out the Tevinters. It's risky, but it could work."

The door to their makeshift war room flew open and a striking young man marched in. "Fortunately, you'll have help."

Tevinter accent...

An Inquisition soldier was right behind him. "This man says he has information about the Magister and his methods, Commander."

Cullen turned his focus to the new arrival.

"Your spies will never get past Alexius's magic without my help. So if you're going after him, I'm coming along."

Ashara nodded at the newcomer. "Dorian," she acknowledged him. "Thank you."

"The plan puts you in the most danger, Ashara. We can't, in good conscience, order you to do this." He gazed steadily at her. "We could still go after the Templars if you'd rather not play the bait. It's up to you."

"I need to think." She turned unceremoniously and walked out of the room.

He watched her as she stopped at the chantry door to speak with another young Tevinter man who'd arrived at some point.

*****

"I've made my decision."

It was early morning. She had called the others to the war room and wore that determined look she'd shown the day they had dragged her up the mountain after the Conclave.

"I am going northeast to the Storm Coast first thing this morning to rendezvous with Scout Harding and to meet with this mercenary captain who wants to join up. Hopefully that means we have a little extra strength going in. From there, we'll ride hard to Redcliffe. Leliana, does that give your people enough time to prepare?"

The advisors' eyes met briefly before Leliana answered.

"Yes..."

"Good. I'm leaving within the hour. I'll wait in the village until I receive word that it is safe to approach the castle. I won't let that bastard hurt any more innocent people."

He'd missed his chance to ask about the herbs.

*****

Waiting for her return—their return—was difficult. They'd made it to the Storm Coast without incident and recruited both the mercenary band—led by a massive Qunari warrior—and a strange cultish group calling itself the Blades of Hessarian. A few days after the raven from the Storm Coast, word came from Leliana that Ashara had made it to Redcliffe with her party.

Additional protection aside, the news that they were now in Redcliffe—that Ashara was now in the midst of hundreds of rebel mages—made his headaches worse. He was not suited to inaction. Waiting around for news while essentially helpless to aid in the cause brought him back to a dark place.

So he took his preferred approach to the increasingly familiar feeling and threw himself into strengthening what defenses he could muster for their little village. He was overseeing the final stages of assembling the trebuchets when a messenger arrived at the gates.

"Ser! Knight-Commander Cullen?"

"That's not my--" He cut his growl off when he saw the young woman wearing a ragged Templar tabard. "What is it?"

"My name is Lysette. The Herald of Andraste said that you had joined the Inquisition. We have left Therinfal Redoubt. We cannot agree to the Lord Seeker's actions. We wish to join the Inquisition. I rode ahead to bring word."

"At ease, soldier." He took a few steps toward the young woman. "What was the Lord Seeker doing at Therinfal Redoubt?"

She paused as though trying to decide what to say. "I... don't know, Ser. Our commanding officers brought us there from all over. Orlais, Ferelden, the Marches. But they all disappeared not long after we got there. Some of the others were acting strangely. I think the Lord Seeker was... conducting experiments. With a strange form of lyrium."

Maker's breath... That would explain the Lord Seeker's odd behavior. 

"Was the lyrium red?"

She looked at him in shock. "Y-yes! How did you know?"

"I have encountered it before." He cursed under his breath. "You've done right by bringing this information to the Inquisition.

"Thank you, Knight-Commander."

"I am no longer a Templar. My title is simply Commander now. How many of you are there?"

"Only a dozen, Commander. The rest should be here by morning. I don't think there's anything we can do to stop whatever Lord Seeker Lucius is doing, but we hope to be able to help the Inquisition's efforts to seal the Breach and restore order."

"Welcome, then. The Inquisition needs all the help it can get. I am pleased to see there are some in the Order who still have some sense about them."

It was some small relief to know they would have additional Templar help should the mages prove a problem.

No sooner than he'd dismissed her, Leliana rushed from the village gates bearing word from Redcliffe. "They are returning, Commander. And the news is strange."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "The report is brief. They will fill us in when they get here. But the mages are safe and will be joining us as soon as they can. Ashara, Cassandra, and the Tevinter mage are riding ahead and should arrive by tomorrow night."

"That's all? No explanation of what happened?"

"None. Cassandra assures us no one was harmed. ...But nothing else."

"I don't like the sound of this. A Tevinter magister... And the Lord-Seeker is doing something with red lyrium..."

"Red lyrium?!"

"I'm starting to think we've stumbled into something far worse than we'd anticipated."


	5. Part I. Chapter 5.

It took her almost an entire hour to explain everything that happened at Redcliffe Castle. That dark future.

The thought of what might have been - what almost was - grabbed ahold of his throat, constricting his breath as she finished her story.

Alexius's magic was worse than even he feared they might encounter. Far worse than anything she'd expected, he could see in her eyes.

He must remember to thank Dorian for what he had done to weaken the time magic and ultimately undo it. For saving Thedas. 

_For bringing her back._

"A contingent of Inquisition and Ferelden soldiers are holding Alexius for now. He will be judged when there is time. After we close the Breach. The mages will be here in a few days. They have joined us freely. As our allies."

Cold ran through his veins, freezing out the warmth brought by her safe return. The thought of so many mages wandering through their camps unchecked was deeply unsettling. How could she have made such a terrible decision? "This is far too dangerous. We cannot offer them an alliance! Not without more Templars in our ranks at the very least."

"We cannot leave them to the cold. And whatever else awaits them," Leliana protested.

"It's not a matter for debate. There will be abominations among the mages. We must be prepared!"

"If we rescind the offer of an alliance, the Inquisition appears incompetent at best," Josephine countered. "Tyrannical, at worst!"

He turned his anger toward the Herald. "What were you thinking turning the mages loose with no oversight? The Veil is torn open!"

"Was I to wait for you all to make a decision and then send me word? What was I to do? Conscript them? Make them our slaves? Force them to work for us—because that wouldn't breed resentment that would then be turned against us?" She spat the words at him. "And how would that make us any better than the Magister? I will not put anyone's life at risk against their own will. I cannot expect anyone to..." 

She brought her voice back under her control.

"Give them their freedom for now," she urged. "If they prove later they can't handle it, impose restrictions."

"And how many lives will be lost if they fail?" He saw something dark in her eyes before she turned so that he could no longer see her face. "With the Veil broken... the threat of possession..."

He turned to Cassandra. "You were there, Seeker, why didn't you intervene?"

She fixed cold, steady eyes on him. "While I may not completely agree with the decision, I support it. The sole purpose of the Herald's mission was to gain the mages' aid, and that was accomplished."

Dorian stepped out of the dark corner where he'd been listening. "The voice of pragmatism speaks! And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments." His tone was inappropriately jovial.

"Closing the Breach is all that matters," Cassandra reminded them all.

"I got a taste of the consequences if we fail," Ashara added without any hint of defensiveness. "Let's make sure we don't."

The conclusion of her statement dripped with venom. And was aimed at him.

"We will not fail," Cassandra said with more conviction than he could himself muster.

"We should look into the things you saw in this dark future... The assassination of Empress Celene. A demon army!" The deep fear in Leliana's voice was lost on Cullen. He could not take his eyes from the Herald. How could she make such a fatal misstep?

"Sounds like something a Tevinter cult might do," Dorian chimed in. "Orlais falls, the Imperium rises! Chaos for everyone!"

Cullen finally lifted his eyes from the Herald. "One battle at a time. It's going to take time to organize our troops and the... mage recruits. Let's take this to the war room." He turned to invite the Herald to join the strategy session, but she was marching away from them swiftly.

Their new Tevinter addition targeted Cullen with a pointed glare before spinning on his heel to follow Ashara out of the Chantry.

*****

Varric was waiting at the Chantry doors for him when Cullen finally walked out into the early evening air.

"I don't know what you said to her, Curly, but I'm pretty sure our Herald is plotting your disappearance for as soon as she seals the hole in the sky. Unless she's planning to just push you in first."

"What do you want, dwarf?" He was in no mood for this. Not with the headache Ashara's stupid decision—or her reaction to his outburst—was giving him.

"You know she's close with Isabela, Hawke's pirate friend with the--" He made an uncharacteristically euphemistic, and somehow all the more vulgar, gesture in front of his chest, indicating large breasts. "I'd watch my back if I were you. I never fully trusted that woman. ...And for good reason... Sunshine may be nicer and she's definitely more honest, but I wouldn't be surprised if her ex-girlfriend shows up and makes you pay for whatever it is you said to her."

"Sunshine?"

"The Herald. Ashara. I admit, the name doesn't quite fit. I'm having a hard time figuring out what to call her. She's too sweet for 'Stabby', but her claws are too big for 'Kitten'. We all know what happened with the last 'Blondie', and you've already got 'Curly'."

"I'd gladly give the name up for her," he muttered under his breath.

"But that's not why I'm here to talk to you, Commander."

"You mean you have some point other than to give me a headache?"

The storyteller exaggerated a hurt face. "Curly's got jokes! I never would have guessed!"

"Out with it already."

"Our little storm cloud..." 

_Storm cloud... Because she'd stormed out or because of those eyes? Does anyone else find their shade so interesting?_

"... red lyrium. This Elder One seems to have taken the worst thing I could think of and made it worse. And your new Templar friends said the Lord-Seeker was experimenting with the stuff."

He grunted an acknowledgment.

"I've got people trying to figure out where the red stuff came from. So we can try to get rid of it."

Cullen nodded, reluctantly setting aside his annoyance for something of this weight. "I think we can make that a priority."

"But enough about this. You should try to relax before you get so tense you actually break something. Being so serious all the time isn’t good for your health."

Cullen shook off the remarks and headed toward his tent near the practice yard...

...Where he was met by a rather unhappy former Seeker.

"A word, Commander."

He sighed. "Yes, Lady Cassandra?"

Her voice softened when she saw the drawn look on his face. "Are you alright? I know the Herald's decision to ally with the mages -"

"I'm fine," he growled.

She studied him for a moment, as if to determine the veracity of his assertion, before continuing. "You are not wrong to be concerned, but I fear you were too harsh on the Herald. Ashara only wishes--"

"Can we talk about this some other time? I still have work to do and I'd like to get some rest before we start seriously planning our approach to the Breach."

A lesser man would have withered under the glare she leveled at him.

"Fine. But you should apologize to Ashara. She had to make a decision. She did."

He grunted and stomped away. As soon as he was within the relative privacy of his tent, he collapsed onto the cot and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the pain to stop. It was going to be a long, sleepless night. He could try to bore himself to sleep with reports, if nothing else, but something told him even that wouldn't work.

*****

Night had fully fallen when his headache finally faded and he stepped back out into the crisp air. The late Harvestmere weather was turning the corner into cold.

Thank the Maker Ashara was able to get supplies to the refugees at the Crossroads. They'd never last the winter without her.

He felt a stab of guilt at the thought of his lashing out at her that afternoon. Cassandra was right: a choice had to be made. She hadn't his experiences with magic. And he supposed he should consider it a good thing she wouldn't force anyone to work for the Inquisition. She was right to think that could just as easily blow up in their faces.

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to massage away the tension there as much as loosen up his frozen fingers.

A faint sound like someone chopping firewood carried momentarily over the relaxed conversation and laughter that had been filling the camp since the Herald's successful return from Redcliffe. He looked around and noticed Lieutenant Rylen gazing out toward the nearby pond.

The younger man snapped to attention when he saw the Commander. "Ser!"

"At ease, Rylen." Cullen strode over to join him.

His fellow ex-Templar relaxed and nodded his head toward the frozen water. "It's the Herald, Ser. She's been out there for hours. Sitting down now, at least. But I'm starting to think someone should go check on her. She doesn't seem to be entirely well."

Cullen followed Rylen's gaze to the dock. Sure enough, Ashara was there, sitting against one of the low posts and apparently practicing with throwing daggers by flipping them one by one into the post opposite her. She would get through the half dozen knives then lean forward in a limber stretch, pull each blade from the wood and then repeat.

"Has she really been doing that for hours?"

"Well, no. She started with a shortsword, but one of the Bull's Chargers went out there and took the blade from her. And gave her a bottle."

He stared at Rylen with incredulity. "And you've just watched her? You haven't tried to bring her back in? She could hurt herself or fall through the ice or..."

Rylen met his gaze, a smirk pulling the tattoo along the bridge of his nose almost into a question mark. "Don't want the pretty little thing to hurt herself. Perhaps you'd like to check on her yourself, Ser?"

Cullen growled. "I know she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself, I just..." He sighed. "We need her to close the Breach. We can't have her getting frostbite or being attacked by wolves because she got drunk."

"Of course not, Commander."

He glared at the Marcher. "Don't you have better things to do than stare at the Herald?"

Rylen raised his hands in front of him as he backed away toward the village gates. "Of course, Commander. I'll let you take over the Herald-watching post. Just didn't want anything to happen to her while you were working... Besides, it hasn't been the worst task. She's pretty damn easy on the eyes." He winked, turned, and strode off to the tavern.

What was everyone on about today? Cullen didn't "watch" Ashara that much. And why would she need an apology from him? It's not like they were close. He wasn't anything to her other than the Commander of the movement she'd been involuntarily drafted into.

Sure, he'd spent a good number of evenings with her, but that was for training her on proper shield use. 

And they had sat together during most meals, but that had been to discuss Inquisition business. 

And they'd had a handful of conversations about things other than the Inquisition, but nothing inappropriate even if she did flirt a little...

There had been that one morning when he found her running herself to sleep and she had hugged him before going in...

And maybe he'd had a few dreams about her, but no one could know about that...

And, of course, he was already walking out toward the dock, but that was because it was getting very cold, and she'd been out there for hours. And she was drinking. And might hurt herself. With her own throwing daggers. Even though she was wearing armor.

She looked up at him as her last dagger buried itself to the hilt in the soft wood across from her. "Here to yell at me more? Tell me I should have just left them to their fate with the Magister? That I've brought doom upon the world?"

He sighed and sank down to sit across from her as she took a swig from the bottle the Charger must have brought her.

"You sure you want to sit there?" She plucked the knives easily from the old post. "I might miss my target. Not that you'd feel anything through all that armor," she scoffed.

_Thunk._

"Ashara..."

_Thunk._ "Commander." _Thunk._

He caught himself before asking her to call him Cullen, thinking better of it when she was clearly in no mood for such pleasantries.

_Thunk._ "I owe you an apology."

He'd thrown her rhythm off.

"Oh?" _Thunk._

"Earlier, I..."

_Thunk._ He looked down and noticed she'd planted the last blade in the dock, right between his thumb and forefinger.

"Maker, Ashara, maybe you should have trained with daggers instead of a sword and shield!"

She gave a mirthless laugh. "I've already done that."

He looked up at her as she pulled the other five knives from the post.

"You never thought to ask. Do you really think I'd have lasted so long out there if I couldn't, at the very least, keep myself alive?"

_"Don't want the pretty little thing to hurt herself"..._ Did Rylen know something he didn't?

She gripped the handle of the last blade, a hard glint in her eye that melted before she looked away with a deep breath.

"I'm not a soldier. I'm a half-assed rogue. A soft noble-pirate and petty thief. I've never had to deal with anything more than skirmishes with drunks without a more skilled fighter at my side. I wasn't going to be of any use against warring soldiers and demons and... bears." 

She shuddered at that last one. He'd have to ask about that.

She continued, the ice melting from her voice as she went on. "There are only so many times a person can be patched up by a spirit mage and put back together by healers before all the blood loss and pain gets to them. And, besides, it was the only way I could get you to actually talk to me." She gave him a sheepish look before yanking the knife from the dock and resuming her target practice.

_Oh._

"Cassandra is a little too into the whole Chantry thing." Thunk. "But she had sympathy toward me almost immediately after she stopped wanting to kill me. And we could talk about our obnoxious families even before we started fighting together and getting close." Thunk. "And Leliana, honestly, terrifies me, but she's got a softer side and can at least make small talk about silly little things like shoes." Thunk. "And Josephine is... Well, she might actually take over Thedas some day, but at least she complains with me about the cold and mud and eating flavorless maybe-ram stew every day for weeks on end." Thunk. "Varric has his stories. Solas gives lectures about... whatever the hell he does on about." Thunk. "Vivienne is a bitch, but Maker is it fun to watch her completely take someone apart. Sera and I can joke about snooty nobles." Thunk. "Blackwall keeps to himself but at least he makes jokes. The Iron Bull and his Chargers have all kinds of great stories. And Dorian started trying to make me laugh from the moment we met. While demons were attacking us."

He felt a pang of jealousy at that.

"But, Cullen—Fade take you—you looked like you wanted to run away almost any time I approached you by yourself. You almost dropped me back into the snow when you realized you were touching me that night I got back from the Hinterlands. Until you had a sword and shield aimed at me, it was like you couldn't get away from me fast enough. Then after I thought we were becoming... friends..." She sighed. "...I'm making too much of this, aren't I? You're a Templar. I'm bringing a bunch of rebel mages into your home..."

They sat in silence for a few moments. She gazed out over the frozen pond, expression unreadable, then took a long pull from the half-empty bottle.

"I'm sorry. I just dumped all of that on you when I should have figured out by now that you're not much of one for all this touchy-feely shit."

"No - Ashara - I... You don't need to apologize for that." His voice almost stuck in his throat.

She looked at him and he could see that her eyes were moist. He didn't know how to continue.

"Sorry, Cullen. I've been drinking." She waved the bottle. "I'm being a bit melodramatic."

"Not at all. May I?" He reached out a hand.

She raised an amused eyebrow and handed him the bottle without remark. He took a deep drink then began coughing. She had not been drinking wine...

"Maker, what is that?"

She laughed, her face rearranging itself to the woman he had come to recognize as Ashara. "Terrible, isn't it? But gets the job done."

He wiped at the water the swill had drawn from his eyes before taking another swig, this time holding back the cough.

"Krem brought it out to me. Traded it for my sword. Said he was afraid I was going to chop down the dock and they'd have to pull me from the pond."

He smiled at her. "We can't have that."

"No. Certainly not. I'm the only means of closing the Breach."

_Oh. That. You're lucky she didn't actually stab you, Rutherford._

"Ashara, I..."

"Don't, Cullen. I know you meant nothing by that remark. Honestly, it didn't get to me until this afternoon when you yelled at me for allying with the mages..." She grabbed the bottle out of his hands again. "I spent that night going over the whole thing in my head. I knew that no matter which group I approached, there would be fallout. I took everything you all said to heart and thought so long and hard. I didn't sleep. I couldn't. But I didn't want to come out here to run for fear you'd find me and I'd make some commitment to you about the Templars that I just didn't know if I could keep... As tired as I was, I probably would have sworn you anything to get you to lend me your cloak again..."

_What does she mean by that?_

"But the thing that made up my mind was that the mages had children with them. Children. I couldn't let the Magister take them. And the Tranquil! They were killing them. If I hadn't gone back to Redcliffe, Maker only knows what would have befallen them. I figured the Templars could take care of themselves, what with being knights and all. Not that I was fine abandoning them to Maker knows what, either, but at least there weren't any children among their numbers. But then I get back here and find out that bastard Lucius is doing something to them too. And then when you yelled at me, I just couldn't take anymore..."

She took another sip of the rotgut then passed the bottle back to him, her face turned away from him but the tears running down her cheeks plainly visible.

"Please finish this. It's getting way too easy to drink, and I've already thoroughly made a fool of myself tonight."

He accepted the bottle and took two or three swallows, not taking his eyes off her.

"Ashara, I really am sorry. I... Someday I'll explain."

She laughed bitterly then sniffled.

"I mean it, Ashara. I'm... not ready to share the whole story, but... between Kinloch Hold—the Ferelden Circle—and what happened in Kirkwall, I have a hard time trusting mages sometimes. At times I..." He sighed, girding himself to continue. "I've treated mages unfairly. And… without reason. It was unworthy of me." Another drink of the liquid fire. "And the way I spoke to you earlier... That was unworthy of me too... You didn't deserve that."

The apology hung in the air between them for a long moment, their breath condensing around it.

Then the wall of emotional ice shattered under its own weight and the tiny smile she offered him.

"Just don't do it again." She was joking.

He met her attempted joke halfway with a smile of his own. "I think I can agree to that."

"Good. Because I really have started liking you. A lot. And not just for your fancy cloak that smells so good."

He almost choked on the liquor he was trying to swallow.

She giggled.

_Giggling. She's giggling at me._ He felt like a boy hearing that sweet sound.

"Careful, Commander. We can't have you choking on some awful booze every time the Herald of Andraste flirts with you."

She's flirting with me. He could feel his face heating up. Blast the bright light of the moons tonight.

More giggling. "Fade take you, Commander Cullen of Honnleath! I told you that your blushing was adorable. Are you trying to get more nice things out of me after you pissed me off so bad?"

He barely felt the hand she swatted against his greave, but he noticed it. He took another drink to hide the deepening blush then cleared his throat with effort.

"Um..."

"I'll stop. I don't want you dying of embarrassment. It's just so much fun to see you—the _Commander of the Inquisition_ —so _strong_ and _chivalrous_ and, and _serious_ all the time— _blushing!_ " She drug out the last word.

The silence that fell between them this time was much more comfortable, but heavy with something joyful and unexpressed. And her hand had fallen back to his greave, tracing the diffused reflection of the moons on the metal.

"Thanks, Cullen. For coming out here to talk to me."

"Of course." He wanted to reach out and take that hand in his own, but couldn't quite get himself to. 

Besides, he must maintain his professional demeanor. He had to get her safely to the Breach so she could close it, and it wouldn't do for him to be distracted.

She sighed. "It's a really beautiful night, even if it is freezing out here."

"It is."

_She's cold, again. And she's not being subtle about wanting to borrow your cloak, Rutherford._

"And in a few nights, that creepy green light should be gone."

"It should."

_Give her your cloak, idiot. And try actual sentences._ He was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, and set the bottle aside.

"Are you cold? Do you want my cloak?"

Her eyes sparkled.

_Andraste preserve me._

"Please?"

He smirked at her as he removed the cloak and offered it to her. She wrapped herself in it eagerly, burying her face in the thick fur of the mantle and inhaling deeply before meeting his eyes again.

"Thank you, Cullen."

He would die a happy man if this were the last moment of his life. How long was he gazing at her before she spoke again?

"The mages should be here in a day or two..."

"Hm?"

She giggled again and, he imagined, blushed a little herself.

"The mages. They'll be here soon and then we'll close the Breach and my role will be done..."

_Is she telling me she's going to leave?_

"I want to stay with the Inquisition until this is over, though. I told you before that I would see this through. I mean that. Even if it means I just become a regular soldier."

He let his hand rise up and rest on her ankle. "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish."

A sad smile raised the corners of her full lips.

What would it feel like to kiss those lips? 

_Stop it!_

"Thank you, Commander." She glanced at his hand on her boot, the smile grew. She closed her eyes.

"I'm in no hurry to leave you behind... Um, all of you. The Inquisition, I mean." She cleared her throat. "But I'm getting pretty impatient to seal the Breach and hopefully get rid of whatever this is." She waved her left hand before opening her eyes again and staring at her palm where a faint green light danced in rhythm with the Breach above them.

"I can understand your impatience," he murmured. 

_Does the mark hurt her?_

"My mother used to always tell me that patience is a virtue." She let her head fall back with a wide smile. "But right now it certainly is not."

He chuckled.

"... And I've never been accused of being a very virtuous woman..."

He froze for a moment, unsure how to react, but then let himself laugh along with her when she finally broke at her own joke.

"I'm only teasing, you know. I'm all talk. I'm not..." She shifted her weight around a bit. "I'm not like Isabela... Varric tells me you know her."

_Maker's breath. What else has Varric told her?_

"Um... We met a few times. Back in Kirkwall. And I don't think - that is, I'm sure you're not... You don't... _Maker's breath_..." The liquor-warmth in his belly had spread through his veins and was burning his face, and clearly making it even harder for him to speak to her. 

_Real ladies' man, Rutherford..._

She chuckled lightly, and brought her hand down over his where it rested on her ankle.

"It's okay, Cullen. Varric couldn't tell me enough about what a good man you are—and were in Kirkwall. And it sounded like my Admiral gave you the Void of a hard time back then. As if you didn't have enough to deal with at the time." Her eyes were locked on her fingers, which were now tracing along the edge of his vambrace between the plate and the leather of his glove.

He struggled to breathe, his core grown heavy, his blood thick.

_Speak, Rutherford!_

He couldn't.

They must have sat like that for nearly an hour, only just touching, not speaking, the tension grown weighty and seductive between them, before he noticed that she was shivering just a little.

"I think we should get you inside, yes? You've had a long day..." He barely got the words out.

"...And not a little to drink," she husked.

"I don't know that I'm far behind you on that count." He struggled to pull himself back together. "That is some wicked stuff."

"It is... And I think I'm going to need your help standing back up..."

He chuckled warmly as he hauled himself up off the dock, reluctantly breaking the ... magic ... of their slight contact. "I think I can manage that."

He walked her back to her cabin, neither saying a word. When she tried to give him back his cloak, he shook his head.

"I'll be okay. I don't want you to be cold, and I'm sure the fire in your cabin has been out a while. You can just bring it back to me in the morning." 

She smiled and lifted herself onto her tip-toes to brush the ghost of a kiss against his cheek before slipping inside. He held his hand to his cheek for a burning moment, cursing himself for not shaving better than morning.

He would curse himself again in the morning when he realized there was no way for her to return the cloak to him without someone noticing something. But for tonight, he almost felt blessed with the luck he'd never had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favorite to write up to this point. Hope you enjoyed it too.


	6. Part I. Chapter 6.

She was pressed so close to him, nuzzling into his collarbone, her hands on his chest, legs tangled with his. Her breathing was soft and deep. She slept so soundly in his arms. He pulled her deeper into his embrace, inhaling the smell of soap and flowers in the golden curls spilling across his chest and shoulder, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He was careful not to disturb her but also hoped she would wake and give him a sleepy smile, look at him through heavily lidded eyes as the slow dawn filled the tent and brightened her eyes from deep silver to sparkling aqua blue.

"Cullen," she murmured, half awake. She opened her eyes languidly, the light catching the smudges of green-gold around her pupils. That sweet smile crept across her lips, still swollen and red from last night. Her hand slowly came to life and made its way to his hair, ruffling the curls gently, her thumb tracing his jawline near his ear.

"Good morning, lovely,” he whispered. “Sleep well?"

She moaned a giggle, stretching just enough that she didn't disturb the blankets piled on them against the cold Haven wind.

"Good morning, Lady Cassandra. Are we prepared to receive the mages?"

_What?_

He opened his eyes and found himself back in his tent near the practice yard. He was alone, of course, on the standard issue cot he had chosen over the soft feather bed in the Chantry. His arms were wrapped tightly around his pillow, which wasn't nearly as pretty as the woman it had been trying to imitate.

His cold reality snapped into better focus as sharp pain welled up behind his eyes - whether from whatever poison they'd shared the night before or another withdrawal headache, he wasn't sure. Either way, it was a sign of a rough day to come.

A punishment for losing control of his emotions. 

They had so much to do and he was wasting time and energy fantasizing about a woman he could never have. He needed to prepare his soldiers for the arrival of the mages, then prepare them all to march through the demons amassing before the Breach so that she could seal the massive rift in the Veil.

... With her hand, so deft with daggers, strong with her sword and shield, gentle on his own...

And then there was the matter of the red lyrium experiments being run on his former brethren at Therinfal. And the question of why a Tevinter Magister was in Fereldan, going on about some Elder One. And the assassination of Empress Celene...

He couldn't distract himself—or her, for that matter, as important as she was to him—them!—she was important to the Inquisition's mission. He shouldn't be wasting her time with some flirtation he couldn't take anywhere...

The reprimands he flung at himself were rote. Cullen had always been a romantic soul.

His whole life he could think of nothing better to do than to protect those in need. The striking figures of the Templars at the Chantry in Honnleath were mesmerizing. He knew as soon as he saw the strong young men and women in their gleaming armor, emblazoned with the image of Andraste's sword, that he would be that hero. He would protect mage and non-mage alike from the devastation of blood magic and demons. He would be the righteous one, standing without faltering before the corrupt and wicked. The dashing knight coming to the rescue of beautiful noblewomen who would grant him their favor (whatever that meant)...

...Reality had set in almost as soon as he arrived at the Chantry barracks, before his voice had stopped cracking. For one, women were nothing like the simpering maidens of his sisters' tales, but more like his sisters themselves. More than one female Initiate knocked him on his arse during his first weeks of sparring practice. 

Being the protector, while still his natural instinct, was far more dangerous and much less glamorous than he'd imagined. Demons and abominations and murderous blood mages competed with the cruelty of bigoted Templars and the megalomania of competing nobles to darken his view of the world. Those he trusted turned their backs on him. At best. At worst, they were twisted by demons, red lyrium, or their own darkness of the soul.

Despite all of the horror and pain he'd been through, all of the evil to which he'd turned a blind eye before having the dust shaken from his eyes, the struggle he faced to become a better man—a good man deserving of love, and all of the loss and ugliness life in Thedas in the Dragon Age entailed, he still clung to the ideal of true love. The demons had used that against him in Kinloch and afterward he'd buried that part of himself so deep he thought he'd lost it. He'd looked for it briefly in Kirkwall after a few years, but that had just turned into the venting of lust. Enjoyable, and it certainly exorcised some demons, but it wasn't what he was looking for.

He would never say it out loud, but he still held out hope. In that way he could still be like the heroic knights of legend. For that one woman who would in turn be his protector. His true equal in every regard who would stand by his side and lie in his arms. Somewhere out there, beneath the pale light of Thedas's dual moons, his soulmate existed. Maker will that he could survive long enough to find her.

Only recently had he come to realize that what he felt over a decade ago for Solona was only a shadow of what could be.

He shook himself from his reverie and threw back the blankets, only then realizing he'd fallen asleep in almost full armor, missing only his boots, pauldrons, and cloak.

His cloak! He had insisted she keep it overnight. And now the others were about. There was no way he'd be able to get it back from her without someone noticing something amiss...

It was neatly folded and sitting on a stool, a sprig of elfroot resting on top.

Elfroot is perfect for, among many other things, headaches. He smiled at the thought of her placing the leaves there, knowing she had probably been chewing some herself at the time—especially as she had clearly gotten up early enough to return the cloak unnoticed.

He had once again forgotten to ask her about the herbs she’d sent from the field. He'd been so distracted by her emotional outburst and then the reveal of her tender side again.

What was that all about? He didn't think he'd been so standoffish. In fact, he would have been proud of how relatively steady he'd been around her if he thought about it much. 

Not that he thought about her much... 

He had successfully fought the urge to run away the way he had as a lad—well into his twenties, really. Sure, he got flustered when Ashara's remarks were especially flirtatious or forward. And the blushing... 

_She thinks I'm adorable when I blush. Is that a good thing?_

But it wasn't like he was cold toward her.

She'd become quite close with the others. But he was the Commander of the Inquisition. It was his duty to protect their movement. He should maintain a professional relationship with her.

Not that he wouldn't prefer something more... personal.

_Stop, Rutherford._

He rubbed the back of his neck before pulling the cloak on over his now fully-reassembled armor. The astringent essence of elfroot had blended in with the cloak's familiar non-smell, along with something else—deeper, floral but almost carnal.

_Is this what Ashara smells like?_

He took a deeper breath through his nose, trying to pick apart the notes of her perfume. Something like oranges, and jasmine or the bitter orange flowers that were strewn throughout the Kirkwall Chantry to mark Summerday. And beneath that a musky-sweet scent, like sea air.

_She smells like summer..._

Had she slept in the cloak?

The image of her tawny, muscular form wrapped in his cloak, one long leg peeking out between the overlapping cloth, the long fur framing her strong jaw and prominent cheekbones, tickling where he would place gentle kisses...

_Stop it!_

He squeezed his cold hands into tight fists, as though he could choke off the dueling emotions. He would retain control over this boyish crush on the Herald. 

He could make an effort to be more open with her, of course. That would help her feel more comfortable within the Inquisition and make it easier for them to work together. 

And maybe there was something to Cassandra's earlier remarks about the Herald's effect on his anxiety and withdrawal symptoms...

He sighed. 

_You're doomed, man._

He carefully (maybe more carefully than usual) greased and sculpted his sleep-mussed curls into the more serious style. He'd discovered the improved hairstyle with the help of a young Orlesian woman he'd met in Kirkwall shortly before he and Cassandra left the city. He had been mildly embarrassed by his vanity but relieved for the effective taming of his "noodle" hair.

He had to close and reopen his eyes several times to clear his vision and what he knew could not truly be mage-fire burning around him.

The Fade-cursed hallucinations must be beginning...

He lathered his face but found that his hands were shaking too hard to safely shave.

He would prefer to appear more pulled together then he felt, if for nothing more than to marshal the confidence of his forces as they prepared for the inevitable demon battle when they escorted the Herald to the Breach.

Though she hadn't complained about the stubble last night when she... she kissed me! His cheek, yes, and only a chaste peck, but...

_Stop it!_

He gave himself a final once-over in the small mirror before leaving his tent. The exhaustion and tension didn't show as much as he feared. Cassandra had pointed out that spending time with Ashara seemed to benefit him... If only it removed the other symptoms of the deepening lyrium withdrawal.

*****

Ashara was impatient. 

_"... And I've never been accused of being a very virtuous woman..." ..._

_Stop it!_

She didn't want to wait around doing nothing while they awaited the arrival of the mages and knew there was still much to do to protect the innocents of the Hinterlands.

It would be good for him for her to be away. He could clear his head and focus on planning their assault on the Breach.

As soon as she rode out with her companions, he turned to the task at hand.

By midday, he had a plan. With the help of the small band of ex-Templars, his soldiers would be able to cut a path through the demons and ensure Ashara and the mages would make it to the Breach unscathed. And then she would seal the Breach and the Inquisition could turn its focus to other things: the assassination plot, the red lyrium, the Magister and this Tevinter supremacist cult—the Venatori—that Dorian had told them about.

He briefed Rylen on their plans.

He ran the recruits through their usual training exercises.

Leliana discussed the most recent reports from her scouts throughout Ferelden and Orlais. No sign of an attempt on Celene's life yet, but the spymaster was concerned about disappearances among her network.

Josephine reported that while the nobility were still far from eager to lend the Inquisition any official support, attitudes in Ferelden were improving as the Herald passed through villages and farmlands, sealing rifts, slaying demons, and helping out anyone she could.

It was a normal day. As normal as they got for him, anyway. Just accented with a blinding headache and occasional tricks of light that made him turn his head in a panic only to find nothing.

At sunset, he wandered out to the dock and found that her throwing daggers were still embedded there. The empty bottle had rolled off the dock and landed in a snowdrift on the frozen water. The headache hadn't let up all day and he half-hoped that the stillness of the scene—and maybe the memory of the previous night—might provide some respite.

He had kept her out of his mind as best he could while he worked. Now, after he'd read and addressed every available report and met every obligation of the day, with his head splitting in half and his mind playing tricks on him, it would be okay to relax just a little. The mages would arrive tomorrow according to the most recent reports. He would need to be well rested.

And Ashara would be back to Haven the day after.

*****

The mages' arrival was surprisingly orderly. At least they said nothing to him. It was apparently Cassandra who took the brunt of their ire when the Herald and her party returned to Haven. He was more than happy to let the Seeker deal with their petty complaints.

The trip to the Hinterlands had uncovered more disconcerting news, though. While dealing with bandits harassing refugees along the East King's Road and clearing out a band of mercenaries who had occupied Arl Guerrin's Grand Forest Villa, they had uncovered evidence of a Carta red lyrium smuggling ring that referred to "red Templars". Ashara had found a key into Valammar, which the Carta smugglers were using to access the surface and bring the cursed minerals to their buyers, but she wanted to discuss the discovery with the others and question the ex-Templars who'd recently joined about the reference to "red" Templars.

Undoubtedly, these Templars were the results of Lord Seeker Lucius's experiments, but the way they were discussed in the recovered notes made them sound different from what had happened to Meredith after long-term exposure to the stuff. 

Another mystery for the Inquisition to address...

Between concerns about this new development and the bustle about the village, he was unable to find a moment alone with Ashara before their planned march. But all would go as planned, and he would be able to enjoy time with her afterward.

Unlikely. But a man can dream...

The plan actually went off without a hitch. They made it through the valley to the Breach with only minor injuries, no deaths. The mages proved useful, insisting on helping the martial efforts through barrier and healing spells. He had to admit he was grateful for the battle-mages who took on demons directly.

He stood back and watched in awe as she approached the swirling tempest of dark magic. The air shimmered like water as she got closer, her hand sparking. He couldn't help but hold his breath when she lifted her hand and the magic began bending to her will. The few remaining demons fell dead as streams of light and magic coursed through the air, flowing between her marked hand and the Breach. And then—

\--A burst of energy felled them all as the rift keeled in on itself and collapsed closed.

As soon as he regained his footing, he sought her out... There! Still in the Temple, pulling herself to her feet and brushing dirt and ash from her armor.

She had done it.

They had done it.

The Breach was sealed.

*****

The mood in Haven was light for the first time since the Conclave. An impromptu band had formed outside the tavern and played lively music for the soldiers and refugees who danced and celebrated with abandon. While the Inquisition's work was far from over, the immediate threat had been removed and they could remember what it was like to live without imminent danger hanging over their heads.

He watched as she made small talk with the others. She was bombarded by congratulatory hugs and praise. There would be a lot of babies named Ashara next year. 

Once things quieted down, he would approach her. In the meantime, he had reports to prepare and requisitions to clear.

"Not joining in the revelry, Commander?"

He looked up at the familiar lilt of her voice. "I - I was just... Well. No, I'm not."

"Not happy with our victory?"

"I'll be happier when we've answered the questions your discovery in the Hinterlands brought up. And the Venatori and Red Templars are dealt with. And the assassination conspiracy is foiled."

Why was he being so brusque? Just moments before he'd been looking forward to questioning her about her mysterious gifts to him and her plans now that the Breach was sealed.

"I hear you..."

_Be nice to her, Rutherford!_

"I see you're not joining the party either. You're the reason they're celebrating, yet here you are, away from the crowd toasting your name."

She sighed. "I can't help but feel like something is going to go wrong. It all felt too easy." She grimaced. "Back in my swashbuckling days, anything this easy always turned out to be a trap."

"Wise words, Herald."

"Please, Cullen... None of that tonight. I need to hear my actual name." Her tone was almost plaintive.

He felt a burst of warmth and set aside his quill and parchment and stood to be beside her. "Of course, Ashara."

She closed her eyes and inhaled softly. "Thank you," she whispered.

They stood in their comfortable silence for a long moment.

"I... want to apologize for the other night. For being so drunk and acting rather silly. It was inappropriate."

"Don't. You have no reason to apologize."

She scoffed. "I got shit-faced because you disagreed with my decision then accused you of not being my friend like it was a crime against my human dignity. It reminded me of the kind of tantrum my older sister Katlyn used to throw when a suitor danced with another girl at a party."

He offered her a soft chuckle. "Not at all. You're right that I've not been exactly... forthcoming with you. It's not an easy thing for me. But for what it's worth, I..." How does he finish this thought...? "I enjoy your company. Very much."

Is she blushing?! _Rutherford, you dog, she might actually like you._

"Thank you, Cullen... I... enjoy your company as well. Very much."

Now she was grinning up at him and he had no idea what to say next. And he couldn't stop smiling.

"How was your head the next morning? I thought I was going to die when I woke up. I must have eaten half an elfroot plant before breakfast."

"I... have had better mornings," he chuckled. "Thank you for the elfroot you left in my tent that morning, by the way. It proved to be very useful."

She looked at her feet and kicked at the snow, the music of her soft laugh just reaching his ears.

"Speaking of... You sent me some odd messages back when you initially went to Redcliffe. I've been meaning to ask..."

She blushed again, and doubled the volume of her laugh. "Yes... Yes, I did. I might have been drinking a bit on that trip as well. Blackwell and Sera are bad influences!"

"Oh, really? I suppose even the Herald of Andraste needs to blow off steam from time to time."

She swatted at him. "Stop calling me that!" Another laugh. "I spent the last decade and a half with Rivainis and their Qunari and Dalish friends. The Chantry is probably right in calling me a heretic."

"Not an Andrastian then?"

"Oh, I don't know. Honestly, Cullen, I don't know what I believe. My family is so closely tied to the Chantry, and I grew up with the Chant and all that, but... The Rivaini are certainly doing something right. And what the Chantry did in Dairsmuid... I was there, you know? ... It was horrible... After that, I don't think I can ever call myself a proponent of the Chantry..."

She had said that she had been doing something else while Isabela was in Kirkwall. Cassandra had mentioned she'd been through more than she'd let on... He could see why she had chosen to side with the mages now.

"...I didn't say it the other night, but that's part of why I made the choice I did... And why I was so upset by your reaction."

"I... I'm so sorry, Ashara..."

She stood there silently for a moment.

_Way to kill the mood, Rutherford._

"But I want you to know that I don't hold the Chantry's actions in Dairsmuid against the Templars, or... you."

Her eyes were shiny and earnest when they connected with his. It took all of his Templar discipline not to reach out and caress her cheek, offer her the comfort of a tender touch.

"Anyway. Tonight is supposed to be a celebration, and I was going to tell you about my inept attempt to seduce you with herbs."

He choked and felt his face grow hot. "Wha- what?!"

The laughter had returned to her voice. "Those little messages."

"Um. Yes... I... What - Why did you send those?"

She grinned and looked away before continuing. "Well... Wow, this is harder than it should be. Fade take you, Cullen... You affect me, you know that?"

_SHE LIKES YOU!_

"I sent the elfroot because... Oh, Maker, this is embarrassing."

"You don't have to explain..."

_Please! Please explain!_

She took a heavy breath. "Elfroot is good for pain, and it seems like..." Another sigh. "It's so presumptuous of me... But... well, when we spoke before I left to meet with the mages in Redcliffe, it seemed like there was a pain in your... ugh, I have to say this... it seemed like your heart hurt. I won't ask why unless you want to share, and I'm sure it's why you're not as open as I wish you were, but there it is. I wanted to send you a little comfort because I'm awkward and weird and... Can I stop talking about the elfroot now?"

He fought the smug grin as long as he could. "You... don't have to say anymore about the elfroot." Something playful kicked up inside him, eager to hear more. "But what about the blood lotus and embrium? Did you think I needed alchemy ingredients or were you suggesting I needed a bath?"

She guffawed at his joke.

_YOU MADE HER LAUGH!_

"No... I'm afraid it's just as corny. Oh, Andraste's flaming hair, this is embarrassing." But she was smiling. "The blood lotus... There was a storyteller in Redcliffe who mentioned a folktale about a spirit in a nearby pond that young women offer flowers to for blessings in love. But, the storyteller said, it was a spirit of valor, not love, and would only respond to offerings of blood lotus flowers. And that made me think of you. You're a brave man, Cullen. I admire your sense of valor. You're like a knight from a fairy tale based on some of the stories Varric and Cassandra have told me." Her voice grew softer as she spoke, then trailed off.

He would have to be more patient with the dwarf in the future if this is what his storytelling led to... That was twice now she'd said she admired him.

"And," she cleared her throat, "turns out there was something to the tale. I put a couple of blood lotus blossoms in the basket the girls use for their little prayers, and this guy actually rose up out of the water." She pulled her blade from its scabbard. "Not bad, yeah? Better than the glorified dagger I'd been using!"

That last bit made him uncomfortable. Strange "spirits" lying in ponds distributing swords was no basis for stocking their armory. She shouldn't be wielding a sword just because some watery "spirit" threw it at her... He cleared his throat.

"And what about the embrium?" he murmured, hardly able to speak.

"Ha! Now that... Varric was teasing me about you. Not that I've said anything, and no one should have even seen me send those ravens. But it made me blush. Which made me think of you. You're unbelievably adorable when you blush. You turn redder than an embrium bloom!"

His heart stopped beating. She had just called him adorable again. And brave. And...

A steady trail of torches was streaming down the mountain. A watch guard approached at a full sprint.

"Ser!" she called, out of breath. "A massive force is approaching! The bulk of them have come over the mountain!"

"Under what banner?"

"None."

"None?!" Ashara gasped.

They were under attack.

"Forces approaching," he shouted to his soldiers. "TO ARMS!"


	7. Part I. Chapter 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little earlier than usual today because it is way too cold to get out of bed to walk to the office.

This was all his fault.

_If I hadn't been so distracted trying to..._

It didn't matter now. They were overrun.

_Ashara is going to die._

After the lone watch guard brought word of the advancing horde, a strange young man—Cole, he said—arrived at the gates bearing the news that the Templars, under the command of the Elder One, were coming to kill the Herald. 

The Elder One was a towering, twisted creature as much red lyrium as man. And at his side, an equally chilling site, was Samson...

"Cullen! Give me a plan. Anything!" she cried.

Cullen knew that Samson wouldn't make this easy. They must control the battle. Thank the Maker he'd thought to properly calibrate the trebuchets. They could strike the mountain above the marching army, take them out and limit their numbers.

He drew his blade, hands steadied by the looming fight.

"Inquistion! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!"

The battle was short and bloody. Wave after wave of Venatori and red lyrium abominations in Templar armor crashed against the meager defenses of Haven. Ashara and her coterie pressed to the front lines, even taking back the southern trebuchet after the enemy had beaten back the Inquisition's soldiers. And with that, the Herald brought down the approaching forces.

That should have been the end of it.

That could never have been the end of it.

They never could have anticipated a dragon. Arch-demon. Whatever it was, it breathed fire and destroyed what remained of their safe haven. A clear path was cut for the remainder of the army to simply walk in and slaughter them all.

He gathered what remained of the Inquisition into the Chantry, Ashara and gang dragging in the injured, those they'd freed from burning buildings.

They wouldn't be safe in the Chantry, but they could at least make this Elder One and Samson fight for their victory.

She had looked at him with those eyes, filled with rage and sadness. "If it would save these people, he can have me."

The Herald of Andraste.

There was nothing they could do. No tactics to make this survivable. Only by turning the trebuchets, causing one last slide...

"We're overrun, Cullen. To hit the enemy, we'd... bury Haven."

"We're dying," he pressed. "But we can decide how. Many don't get that choice."

"But this isn't their choice. These people came to the Inquisition for hope they could find a better life by bringing peace. We can't make this choice for them." Tears threatened.

But Chancellor Roderick, the last person he expected to help, had given them their lifeline.

He stood at the door to the path, dumbfounded and struggling for the proper goodbye. As the Chantry doors slammed shut behind her, he turned, not wanting to accept her decision. He bit down hard on his resolve and made sure every last man, woman, and horse made it into the tunnels to follow Roderick and the strange boy to salvation.

She stayed behind...

This was all his fault...

_And now Ashara is going to die..._

The path was unexpectedly clear and smooth once they got through the first patch of overgrown bushes, as though someone had kept up maintenance even though no one would have been making the summer pilgrimage in early Firstfall.

The climb to the tree line lasted a lifetime. And only a few breaths.

She was dying down there. For them.

The men and women who'd fought by her side as she grew the Inquisition stood with him, the final few catching up with them so much sooner than he'd anticipated. More time... And maybe she could escape as well.

_"But what of your escape?"_

_She had just looked away, jaw clenched, shoulders drawing back._

_"Perhaps you will surprise it? Find a way!"_

He saw the flashes of eerily red flame as the dragon and the Elder One descended upon her.

_Maker give her strength._

_…Give me strength._

The unusually somber Sera handed him her bow and a fire arrow. It was only right that he send the signal.

That he be the one to tell her they were safe.

To signal the sacrifice of the woman he could love...

He did not turn away as the mountain came down upon her.

This was all his fault.

*****

He did not know how long he stood there, Sera's bow fisted in his hand.

Was he watching for movement through the snow now whipped into a frenzy by the force of the avalanche? Maybe a flash of green from her mark? Any sign of hope.

"Cullen." Cassandra stood behind him, Leliana not far behind.

"This was all my fault."

"You know that isn't true."

"I should have known, been on guard. The march to the Breach was far too easy."

"It is I who should bear the blame. I pulled my scouts when some started going missing." Leliana did not mask her anguish.

He just shook his head and slipped back into his Commander role. "We should make sure everyone is prepared. Get everything organized. We may need to stay out here for a while, or we might need to move on. Either way, we need to assess our supplies and ensure the injured are properly attended."

_I let her die. It should have been me. My punishment for turning a blind eye, being complicit in Kirkwall._

Though he busied himself distributing supplies, building campfires, assigning duties, she stayed in his mind. His admiration for her bravery and commitment to this cause that had essentially conscripted her. Her dedication to doing what was right, to making the hard decisions no one should have had to make. Her sacrifice...

Her hand on his. For his hands, icy from the lyrium withdrawal, _her touch was like fire that did not burn_. She _was_ Sunshine. She had stood in that dragon fire, unshaken, showing no sign of fear facing down the monster before her.

This was all his fault. His role was to protect the Inquisition - protect her, and he had failed. He had let her die.

He had killed her...

Snow began to fall and rapidly became a vicious storm. They had to move camp, get to the other side of the mountain to get out of the wind. It was with great reluctance that he joined the others. He insisted they leave a couple of fires burning. To help her find her way to them if she did make it out of Haven somehow.

When they crested the rise and the remains of Haven fell out of view, the demons started their familiar dance through his being. They were Despair, and they froze his heart.

Out of the fury of the storm and unable to travel further in the falling darkness, they pitched camp. He stayed on the edge so he could keep an eye out for... any sign.

As the others began to bed down, the whispering grew. Every gust of wind, shifting shadow startled some sense within him. A desperation. 

It could be her.

It never was.

He paced. His head was pounding.

This was all his fault.

"The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal; But know the sun always rises."

Mother Giselle stood beside him, her steady gaze fixed upon him.

"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

He stared at her. She was trying to tell him something, but the fog of his demons slowed his brain.

"You hold out hope that she may yet live."

"I do."

"Do not let go of that hope. Faith may be all that we have to see us through. Whether you believe she is truly the Herald of Andraste or not, she is a light in the shadows. You must seek that light, see your way through this darkness."

Before he had fully wrapped his head around what she was trying to say to him, the priest walked away.

She was out there somewhere. They had to find her.

With renewed purpose and energy he called for volunteers to form a search party. The response was overwhelming. Nearly everyone strong enough to walk offered their assistance. Her sacrifice had inspired and united them like nothing yet had. The Inquisition had been made real.

"Cassandra, Varric, Iron Bull, you're with me. Rylen, divide the rest into groups. We'll spread out across the ridge. No one is to go off alone. Make sure you are within sight of your team at all times."

_Maker go with us._

*****

What might have been a human form lurched toward them. They were only a few hundred feet from camp. Could she have made it this far?

A faint flash of green...

"There! It's her!" There was no question in his mind.

He reached her right as her strength failed. She fell to her knees, glazed eyes, framed by ice crystals, trying to focus on him.

He caught her before she fell forward into the snow.

"Ashara. You're alive! You're alive... You made it. You came back to me." A breathless benediction on his lips.

He wrapped her in his cloak

"It's alright now. I have you. You're safe. You're going to be alright."

He cradled her, lifting her easily in his arms, pulling her gently to his chest. She was solid, real. Yet somehow weightless, ethereal, as though she could flit away in a heartbeat. He wanted to press her to him, secure her there.

She was alive. She had returned to him...

He didn't bother correcting himself. For this moment, he allowed the selfishness.

"...Cullen..." Her voice was hoarse, strained, barely audible. "I can... walk... You don't... have to... carry me..."

He stopped and looked down at her. Her skin was wan, lips tinged blue. Dried blood streaked her face. Her helm was severely dented, her hair stained red below the damage. She barely kept her eyes open.

He wanted to cry. "You are a terrible liar, Ashara."

She tried to smile. "I'm... okay... Just... Everything hurts... So... bloody... cold!"

He wanted to hold her tighter but he knew it would only cause more pain. But that she felt pain and cold was good. That meant hypothermia hadn't set in. There was hope. She gave him hope.

A tear melted through the snow frozen to her lashes and trailed down her filthy cheek. "Thank you... Cullen." She turned her face into the fur of his cloak and seemed to inhale deeply before nodding off.

_Please, Maker, watch over her._ He prayed silently to try to stave off his own tears. This remarkable woman had battled demons, mages, Templars, bears, and Maker knows what else. She had saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives before tonight. And then she risked sacrificing herself to save them again. 

But now she felt so small in his arms, like she could shatter into a million pieces with the slightest blow. He wanted more than anything to shield her, protect her in this moment. If he did nothing else with his life, let him bring her back, see her safely through her injuries.

Those who remained at the camp stood as they returned, others rushing back as the ecstatic word of their savior's rebirth spread to closer groups, apprehensive at the sight of the Herald lying limp in the Commander's arms.

"We have her. She's alive. Seriously injured. We must warm her immediately. Rylen, call back the others. Dorian, if you would help me, please."

They commandeered a large tent. Cullen refused to set her down until they had arranged braziers around a cot and brought as many extra blankets as they could find. He gently lower her to the cot, still holding her close to warm her, keep her there.

"Cassandra, can you get her armor off? Everything is soaked and we need to see the extent of her injuries. Dorian, can you warm her with your magic?"

_…Please…_

The mage nodded slowly and helped Cassandra remove the rent and scarred plate. Cullen continued to hold her close, head bowed over her, praying desperately that she would be okay.

He looked up when a startled hiss escaped between Dorian's teeth.

"We're going to need a healer."

It did not occur to Cullen that after she'd been stripped of her armor and leathers, she was in only bloodied linens. He only saw the brutal bruises along her left side. She had to have several broken ribs, possible internal bleeding judging by the deep color welling beneath her skin. Her left shoulder was clearly dislocated. Her sword arm appeared to be fractured in at least one place. An ugly gash had split open under the dent in her helm. Her left ankle was swollen and rivaled her ribs for bruising. And the scars... though it was obvious a mage had tried to heal her, she had clearly been severely burned from a couple inches below her navel down her right leg. Those didn't look new.

"Then someone get a healer! NOW!"

How had she made it back to them in this condition?

His breath caught in his throat. It was getting harder to fight the tears back.

"Cullen..." Cassandra spoke softly. "She will be alright. The Maker returned her to us. He would not do so only take her away now. She will be alright."

Adan and Solas arrived blessedly quickly and set to work immediately. The tent was flooded with magic - Solas's healing spells, Dorian's warming runes, and something else Cullen couldn't describe. But he wasn’t afraid. For the first time in his life, he prayed that the powerful magicks were even stronger. Anything to repair what he’d done. 

Cassandra had to gently pry him away from Ashara when his presence became an impediment to the healing efforts. He reluctantly let her go, fighting to accept that the healers and mages were best suited to the work needed now.

With lowered eyes he wandered from the tent toward a fire, not hearing the comforting words Cassandra tried to offer him. Soldiers parted, murmuring and glancing at each other, leaving him to stand alone before the blaze.

*****

The demons tormented him.

This was all his fault.

"She's stable now, Commander, you can rest now. Pacing won't help."

He had sacrificed her to the Elder One, a lamb to die for his cowardice.

"Cullen?"

His foolish desire to connect with someone for whom he could never be worthy had put her life in danger, jeopardized the mission of the Inquisition, threatened the survival of all in Haven…

"I know you've... gotten close with her."

This was worse than turning a blind eye in Kirkwall…

"And I know you mean much to her."

…Than when he let his boyish naivety rule him, be distracted by Solona's pretty face when he should have noticed Uldred's bloody machinations.

He had sanctioned Ashara's death. Had given her over to that monster instead of performing his duty as a soldier and the Commander of the Inquisition.

"There is no reason to blame yourself, Cullen."

_...Your fault, Chantry boy. Coward. Fool. Did you really think you could keep her safe? That you were good enough? You make me laugh. And you thought she might actually be attracted to you? That you could bed her?! We knew you were a fool, but that, of all your stupid ideas..._

Their laughter was cruel and colder than the ice crystals that had frozen to the Herald's face.

"Cullen, perhaps you should get some rest. You've not slept in days..."

_Go ahead, Templar. Rest. Lay down your sword and shield, and just give in. You'll never be able to beat the Elder One. You'll never be able to give her what she needs. We will triumph again, as we always do. And you will be broken. You are broken. Weak._

"...And we need to make some decisions. Once the Herald is strong enough, we will need to move..."

_...An Inquisition? How very presumptuous of you and your silly little friends. Do you really think you have a chance to take away our victory? To compare yourselves to that fool Ameridan. He died too, you know. Disappeared. Because just like your little Herald—so pretty she is, can't wait to taste that._

_Maybe we'll try some of those things you've thought about doing to her... You didn't even know about those things back in Kinloch... We might have tried harder if we knew you could do that! So very naughty, Chantry boy. Where did you get such thoughts? Oh, but it would be fun to be her..._

"Leave me! You will not speak of her that way!"

"Cullen? What are you talking about? Cullen?!"

_Oh, we see we've found your soft spot, Templar. That one, really? The little pirate? Not only do you want to fuck her, you've given her your heart?! Ooh, that's delicious. We could take her away and we'll finally have you too! Do we take her first and use those hips and... oh those thighs... You'd love to bury yourself in her, wouldn't you? It would be so easy to break you with her._

"Cassandra, there's something wrong with Cullen!"

"Go back to the Herald's tent, Leliana, I can handle this."

"Are you su--" 

"Please, Leliana."

_You know she'll never love you. You're weak. Nothing. A broken, lyrium-addicted, Templar fool. Look at how beautiful she is, how powerful. And a noble! She'd never give you the time of day. But oh how fun she'll be to crush. She'll fall just like the rest of them. And it will be your fault when we take her. She's just as weak as—_

"NO! You will not - " He lashed out at the writhing, taunting Desire demons circling him.

Cassandra had his wrist in her iron grip.

"Cullen!"

There were no demons. Only the crushing pain behind his eyes.

A powerful cramping took him. He would have collapsed into the snow if not for Cassandra's quick step to steady him.

"You need to rest, Cullen. Exhaustion will only make the symptoms worse."

"What..." The full picture finally cleared before him. "Maker, Cassandra! I'm so sorry!"

"You've pushed yourself too hard, Cullen. You must rest. You will make it through this, but only if you let yourself."

"This is all my fault - "

"No. Cullen, it is not your fault. It is because of your quick thinking that so many survived. And that we were able to find the Herald before she froze to death."

He focused on steadying his breathing, clearing his mind.

"The hallucinations have begun, then?"

He sighed. "Yes. Not long ago. But this was the worst one yet. It was like the nightmares of Kinloch, but... so specific to... I was awake... and..."

"You need not give me details. Please. Rest. The sun will be up soon, and you've not slept. You will need your strength, and you are more vulnerable to the withdrawal when your body and mind are so tired."

He nodded.

"We will discuss our next steps after we've all gotten what rest we can. The Herald will need time to recover, but we must be prepared to move as soon as she is able... And thank you, Cullen. You saved her. Without your determination to find her... I fear where we may be now."

Her voice was firm, her eyes sincere.

She saw him to a tent, ensuring no one else could see his pitiable state.

Sleep did not come easily, not that he expected it to. Something in Cassandra's words seemed to tame the demons that eventually came. But it was the vision of the Herald - Ashara - standing like a light in the darkness between himself and the Void that stood guard as he finally drifted off.

His last thought before a fitful sleep finally took him was a realization. He had not thought himself capable of that feeling after what the demons did to him using Solona's image. But there it was: warm, inviting, safe, solid, protecting. Proud. Terrifying.

And he would do whatever he could to ensure she would never be forced to make such a terrible choice ever again. He would protect her as she had them all.

It was not the danger of facing every horror the Elder One would fling at them from the Fade that made him tremble. It was the knowledge that he had given his heart to her, just as the demon had said...

_I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, In darkness enveloped._


	8. Part I. Chapter 8.

The hymn echoed through the mountains, a prayer of hope and gratitude. 

She stood just outside of the tent where only moments before she had been convalescing. Her expression cycled through one of apprehension, confusion, shock, and something he could not quite identify. It was clear she was not comfortable with supplicants kowtowing at her feet, noble birth or no.

The song ended and she looked up at him, her eyes... pleading? Afraid?

The dawn would indeed come, and she was its herald. The Herald of Andraste, wreathed in the flames of their campfires now, in the inferno of their former haven, dragon fire. Edges blurred like a flock of birds against the sun.

_Now her hand is raised  
A sword to pierce the sun  
With iron shield she defends the faithful  
Let chaos be undone_

She had been through so much, must have been in so much pain. He shouldn't bother her. Besides, Solas had approached her and the two had wandered off, deep in conversation.

*****

He lay on his cot, staring through the darkness at the canvas above him. Shadows flicked by bonfire flames danced through the tent. The snatches of speech and sobs that wafted through the camp almost masked the sound of someone slipping under the flap, sneaking into his tent.

He startled, then relaxed back into the thin warmth of his cot.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping, Commander?"

"I could say the same for you, Herald." He teased out the title, playing with her. "You should most certainly be resting. You took quite a lot of damage during the battle at Haven, and your body must be..."

He gulped. She was dragging her hand along the curves of that same body, lingering between her pert breasts, fiddling with the fastenings at the collar of the plain buckskin jacket that somehow looked more indecent than anything he'd seen in the Blooming Rose.

"My body must be... what... Commander?" She stood over him now. Her eyes were mere slits, heavy with lust.

"Um... I mean - That is..."

"My body..." She breathed the words. "...is in dire need, Commander."

She sank down onto the cot, straddling him.

"Can you help me, Commander?"

She rocked her hips in a circle, pressing the heat of her lust against him. His cock responded eagerly, swelling against the confines of his clothing. The linen of his braies was almost painfully rough.

"I..." He gasped as she pressed herself more fully against him. 

"Ashara, are you sure you want to be - Ah!"

She had brought her face down to hover just above his, angling her pelvis in such a way that if they were naked, he would...

"Cullen, I need you."

She fell upon him like a starved lioness. Lips, tongue, teeth. Her kisses were desperate and she whimpered with pleasure when he kissed her back, moaned when his hands rose to rest on her hips then pull them down harder against him.

"Take me. Please," she panted, almost whining.

His hands fumbled like a teenager's, but he got the damned jacket off her. She was naked beneath. Her nipples already stood hard and puckered in the cold air. He moaned at the site of her. Skin perfect and almost white in the blue darkness of his tent. Breasts heavy, full, soft.

She tore at the lacing of his cotton tunic. He sat up to let her pull it over his head, pressed her against him, savoring the heat and delicate friction of their naked torsos coming together as he wrapped a fist in her honeyed hair and brought her delicious mouth back to his for a long, deep kiss.

He moaned again as she swiveled her hips against him.

"Please, Cullen. Please..."

He wouldn't make her ask again. He flipped them over easily so that she was on her back. He yanked at her boots so he could peel her leather breaches away from her long legs, which she immediately wrapped around him, making it hard for him to free himself from his own pants.

When finally liberated from his clothing, he growled and pounced on her, wrapping himself in the warmth and muscle of her body. She took him with ease, slippery and burning with desire.

"Even bigger than we thought," she whispered in a familiar voice not her own.

He pulled back. Now Solona lay beneath him, a cruel leer on her soft features.

She laughed. "But wouldn't you love to have them both? At the same time even? You heard Ashara talk about being bedded by another woman. And Isabela at that. You know they weren't just cuddling..."

"No! Leave me!"

He flung himself from the bed and woke with a start as he landed on the worn rug lying over frozen earth.

Just a dream. Of course his demon-scarred mind would seize upon his feelings for her and twist them into his nightmares. But to combine them with Solona, with what the actual demons had used her image for back in Kinloch...

He tried to shake his head clear. Solona fell away easily, but the thought of Ashara lingered. Until now his dreams of her had been free of torment. He blushed to think of the usual content of those dreams. While far from chaste, his dreams of her carried no guilt, regret, or fear. They had been brief oases of pleasure in the nightmare landscape. The mornings after those dreams had been easier, better rested, though he would have a hard time meeting her eye at breakfast or in morning meetings. And those few times when they were able to be alone, close, intimate - that night they had sat by the frozen pond, their hands touching, not saying anything for so long - made him feel like a new man, like he was successfully rebuilding from Kirkwall, like he could love her, be happy. Like he could triumph over the Chantry's control over him and make it through the lyrium withdrawal.

But the nightmares were threatening that peace now.

The insecurities always crept back in after they parted ways, no matter how strong and solid he felt beside her. And now the bitterness of his past was tainting the sweetness.

He realized what it meant for the darkest corners of his brain to pair Solona with Ashara in his torment. What he thought he felt for Solona, though, paled in comparison to what he had reluctantly begun to accept he felt for Ashara.

It was that emotion beyond feeling that was making it so hard to believe that she really was alive and recovering in a tent only a few paces away. Blood magic had taken Solona away from him. The madness of red lyrium and more blood magic had kept him from letting his heart seek that rich fluttering in earnest when he was in Kirkwall. He'd thought he was lost to love before she had reached out and stitched the skies back together.

But then, just before she might have confessed her interest in him...

He sighed, massaging his sore neck. There would be no more sleep tonight. He could take over watch, let his soldiers rest. They would be breaking camp in the morning to set forth in search of a new haven.

*****

The sun was starting to peek up over the lower edges of the mountain skyline, revealing a cloudless sky. It would be a beautiful day. Thank the Maker for small blessings.

She startled him when she arrived at his side.

"Hello, Cullen." Her voice was unusually small, quiet.

He turned and saw her, clad in borrowed leathers and a shabby wool traveling cloak. Her smile was weak, small.

"Ashara!" It came out as a soft gasp.

She lowered her head, not making eye contact, and offered up the folded red cloak she was carrying. The gentle breeze set the fluffy great bear fur mantle dancing. He made no effort to take it from her.

"I... hear I owe you thanks."

_For letting you die?_

"Thanks? For -"

"For finding me right before I probably would have died, Cullen. For not giving up hope." The playfulness he so adored was finding its way back to her voice, fighting aside the heaviness he was pained to hear.

"Oh. That." He chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Any time."

It felt good to speak so freely and easily. It felt like it had been an eternity since their last exchange.

She took a step toward him, her eyes heavily loaded.

"You saved my life, Cullen." A hitch in her voice.

He faced her fully, reached out to grasp her hands beneath the cloak she still held in front of her. His voice could hardly whisper. "And you saved us all, Ashara. If you hadn't..." They both inhaled sharply. "... If you hadn't gone back to face the Elder One and his dragon..."

A long beat, neither of them able to articulate the second part of his sentence.

"Let mine be the last sacrifice."

He'd never heard her quote the Chant before. The words took a preternatural meaning coming from her.

She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with tears.

"Cullen, it was horrible."

He found himself holding her in a tender embrace when the first sob wracked her body. What she had just been through...

"I'm sorry, Cullen. I - " another sob broke her words. She sniffled. "I seem to cry a lot around you."

He still hated himself for making her cry earlier with his harsh words about her decision at Redcliffe. He would never make her cry. Not again, at least. 

"Hush, Ashara. It's alright..."

She sniffled again and straightened, breaking their embrace but not stepping away, his folded cloak hugged to her chest.

"I don't know why, but..." A quieting sob. "But you make me comfortable. Something about you..." A blush rose on her cheeks. "Makes me feel safe, protected, like I can trust you."

His heart tried to break through his ribs.

"I talk to Cassandra about all these things, but I never cry in front of her... You... When we first spoke, I knew you were a good person, someone who will always do the right thing. As we've gotten closer..." She let one hand off the cloak and reached down to squeeze his. "I just feel like I can open myself up to you."

He couldn't breathe.

"You _are_ safe with me, Ashara. It is my job—my duty—to keep you safe."

She exhaled. "Of course."

She pulled back and wiped away tears with her free hand.

"I, um, I brought your cloak back. Again. Thank you. Again."

He still didn't reach to take it. He knew that when he did finally take it back it would smell of her.

"When I woke up, I could smell your cloak." She met his eyes again. "And then I remembered what happened and you warming me back up. I was so cold..."

He took the cloak from her then and wrapped it around the inadequate scrap of wool draped over her shoulders. He would have words with whoever gave her that moth-eaten mess after she had been nearly frozen to death.

She laughed silently and leaned into him in an armless embrace. He let himself hug her close.

"You're safe now, Ashara. We are all endlessly grateful for what you did. You are a hero to these people."

She choked out a cry. "I don't want to be a hero, Cullen! I don't want to be the Herald of Andraste. I just want to be Ashara and live a normal life and fall in love and be at peace! I just want to go somewhere quiet and safe and warm, and not worry about killing demons or fighting Tevinter supremacists or Red Templars or..." She caught her breath. "After Corypheus..."

"Corypheus?"

"The Elder One. His name is Corypheus. He claims to be an ancient magister who actually entered the Fade in service of the Old Gods. Like he was one of the men who caused the Blight... He looks like he's... part... darkspawn, but..."

He felt her shaking her head against his breastplate.

"He said he found the Golden City already abandoned. And now... He wants to go back. To become a god himself."

She shuddered then pulled back. She held out her left hand and stared at it.

"He called this 'the Anchor'. It was a tool he made to get into the Fade so he could become a god. I apparently stopped that from happening. I don't know how... Whatever it was, it's broken now. This thing... He says it's permanent..."

She looked up at him.

"I don't know what all this means. It's... unsettling... And Solas told me that the magic is elven. Corypheus had an orb of some kind, one of these magical elven 'foci'. He used it to open the Breach. And caused the explosion... I was there and I don't remember any of it... I've been a helpless witness to too much..."

 _Dairsmuid..._ He wanted to engulf her in his arms again, take the pain from her.

"And I just want to go away and forget about how awful everything is. But, Cullen, I can't... Not knowing that I can help, even if it is only because I've been marked by failed magic that should have - " She gasped a sob. "I should be dead... So many times now."

He knew these complicated feelings so well.

"Ashara..."

She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and hid her face, crying quietly. He held her, wanting to tell her everything, to let her tell him everything, to say nothing at all, to kiss and caress away the tears and terror, give her strength and draw from her his own.

They stood together, wordless, as the sun broke over the jagged horizon and the camp began to stir.

*****

They were three more days in the blinding wilderness until they arrived at the grand fortress in the north. He immediately threw himself into making the abandoned castle their new base of operations. It would be a stronghold, a capital, a beacon, and a home for the Inquisition and their new leader.

It was a beautiful day in Skyhold when they coronated her.

The decision was easily made before they even made it to Skyhold, but they let her rest and finish healing for a few more days before Cassandra approached her. He watched their conversation, the confusion and uncertainty on Ashara's face.

When they'd discussed making her Inquisitor, he hadn't brought up the things she'd said about wanting to just be Ashara. He didn't want to betray her confidence, keeping her vulnerabilities to himself, but now he was worried. Should he have vetoed the proposal? But there was no one better suited, and he knew she would be an excellent Inquisitor. He would offer her everything he had to help bear the immense weight of the Inquisition and its mission.

His relief at seeing her acceptance was physical. He could not be more certain of the objective correctness of their decision. He met her eyes as she raised the Inquisitor's greatsword toward the sky and then led their followers in a loud cheer for their new Inquisitor. Under her leadership, the Inquisition would do great things. 

Through this mission, he would atone for every mage he had treated unjustly or let be harmed under Meredith. The strength and certainty this offered him would be what got him through the withdrawal until he finally broke the Chantry's chains. And she... perhaps—just perhaps—she would be the love he'd always dreamed of, even after he'd given up on the idea of ever achieving such.

Only when Josephine's uncharacteristic whooping broke his reverie did he realize he must have been staring at Ashara like a starving mabari pup. He and the ambassador both dropped their eyes with chagrin, though whether she knew the reason for his own embarrassment he would have to wait some time to know. For now, they had the real work of the Inquisition to do.

*****

He hardly noticed any protests his body made to the lyrium withdrawal, though he couldn't say that he got any sleep in the following days, either. The barely averted tragedy of Haven still weighed heavily on him, perhaps even more so since his conversation with Ashara that morning in the mountain pass. He hadn't spoken with her at any length since then, both of them distracted by their roles within the Inquisition.

As commander of their growing army, he'd taken on responsibility for bringing Skyhold back from its decrepitude to the glory of its past, or at least an acceptable simulacrum. While the task would certainly keep him busy for the next lifetime, it soon became apparent that he would need to devise plans and put his men to work to clear safe and wide passages to Skyhold from both Ferelden and Orlais. And at the rate things were going, he wouldn't be surprised to see requests for seaways and flight patterns for visitors from beyond Thedas.

He stared at the poor maps they had cobbled together from their journey to the castle and the descriptions from pilgrims who'd found their way to them. He would need to send out scouting teams with hunters and soldiers to accompany what cartographers he had before they could do any serious work securing reliable roadways.

He scribbled his signature across orders for his lieutenant, Rylen, and passed them off to a messenger hovering at his side. "Send men to scout the area. We need to know what's out there."

He wouldn't admit aloud that this was also crucial to his personal mission of keeping Ashara safe.

A newer recruit approached him as he returned his concentration to the maps and blueprints on the table before him.

"Commander, soldiers have been assigned temporary quarters." The young soldier puffed his chest out with pride as though he'd just delivered news that he'd single-handedly bested a fleet of darkspawn.

"Very good. I'll need an update on the armory as well."

They'd been lucky that an armory, smithy, and many other necessaries were already built into the castle's structure, if slightly rundown and technologically dated.

The recruit continued to stand there as though awaiting additional instructions.

"Now."

He knew some of them were new and scared but sometimes he wished he had more than Rylen to stand between himself and the green idiots.

When next he looked up, his sore eyes were given the comfort of a statuesque strawberry blonde in buckskins. Some of the tension left his worn out body, but a new kind, one he minded less, replaced it. Along with less comfortable feelings.

"We set up as best we could in Haven, but could never prepare for an archdemon or whatever it was..." He closed his eyes against the memory of Ashara's sacrifice, suddenly feeling his built-up exhaustion for the first time. "With some warning, we might have..." Guilt flooded up.

"Do you ever sleep?" Her voice carried both sympathy and humor.

The sound tugged at the few remaining soft places inside him, and he felt more of the tired pain let go.

But... 

"If Corypheaus strikes again, we won't be able to withdraw." He turned from her and leaned over the table. "And I wouldn't want to."

_And I can't relive those horrible hours. I will never forgive myself for letting you risk your life for us. I will find a way to keep you safe._

Rather than say that: "We must be ready. Work on Skyhold is underway, guard rotations established. We should have everything on course within the week."

He would not fail at his duty to her again.

"We will not run from here, Inquisitor."

She winced at the title.

"How... how many people were... lost?" Her voice was heavy with pain as though it were her fault anyone died rather than his alone.

"Most of our people made it to Skyhold. It could have been worse."

He should offer her comfort less cold.

"Morale _was_ low. But it has improved greatly since you accepted the role of Inquisitor."

Maker, she was beautiful. He hid himself in the maps to keep from blushing or showing his shame for their losses.

"Everyone has so much faith in my leadership... I hope I'm ready."

Their conversation in the camp...

"You won't have to carry the Inquisition alone, although it must feel like it." _I am here for you, Ashara. Anything you need. I offer you my all._ "We needed a leader. You have proven yourself."

A weak smile. "Is that the Official Response?"

"I suppose it is," he admitted, relieved to hear her humor again. "Though you should know it is a personal one as well."

"Thank you, Cullen."

Her expression at his attempt at humor was immensely gratifying.

She went on, carefully. "Our escape from Haven... It was close."

_It will never be so close again._

"I'm relieved that you..." He thought she might have been blushing. "...that... so many made it out."

"As am I..." He had to say something more than that, but what? His shame and self-doubt blocked him from telling her what he wanted to.

An awkward silence fell between them. He could see her starting to doubt herself and begin to turn away.

"You stayed behind..." He let the emotion sound in his voice, reached for her arm as she started to leave. "You could have -" Those words wouldn't bear speaking. He just tightened his hold on her. "I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again."

He let the sentiment hang and slowly settle before continuing with words deliberately chosen from that first morning they'd been alone together.

"You have my word."

Something heavy and unspoken was exchanged between them. He couldn't say what, exactly, it was, but he took it to heart.


	9. Part I. Chapter 9.

He would eventually have to admit that Ashara's presence did something to help the withdrawal, but for now he simply cursed the Chantry and its control mechanisms. His body burned with fever and the headaches were so bad at times that even the light of a candle would blind him. The iciness of his hands somehow offered no comfort for the pain or fever, and he hadn't been able to eat in days.

Meanwhile, the Inquisitor had returned to the Fallow Mire as soon as the mountain pass was safe for travel. Word had been received in Skyhold that she had finally reached the Inquisition soldiers held captive by an Avaar clansman seeking to challenge her as a representative of Andraste. He expected her party would finish their further investigations into the area within a week and be back to Skyhold not long after.

Until then, he would continue to focus on preparing their army and rebuilding their castle.

He sighed and reluctantly dragged his cramping, shivering body from his bed. He'd gotten no sleep the night before. No less than usual. His traumatized brain had seized upon his growing affection for Ashara and was using it rather effectively. If some part of the Commander sought to sabotage his goals of rebuilding from the rubble of Kinloch and Kirkwall, it had found the perfect siege engines. Before she left with Vivienne, Bull, and Sera, he had almost worked himself up to telling her about his... (infatuation?)... feelings for her.

Something about the nightmare she'd survived in Haven had seemed to haunt her, though. It wasn't the time. She was quieter, spent much of her time alone, resting as directed by her healers and advisors. She always gave him a smile whenever their eyes met, but he could still see angst and wariness there, days after their conversation in the mountain pass, and more pronounced even since they had declared her not only their Herald, but their Inquisitor.

A heavy crown for a weary head.

While part of him (a rather large part) wanted to take her hands and pull her aside, offer comfort, a sympathetic ear, he had given her space during those few days she was recuperating in Skyhold. He hadn't wished to further impose upon her peace with his own needs. But now that he was left alone with nothing but his thoughts and more work than any man could realistically handle, his own brittle peace of mind was crumbling.

The sun glared off the snow-capped Frostbacks. It crushed the remaining parts of his head that weren't already cowering from withdrawal, which set off a chain reaction of symptoms, nearly crippling him before he could even reach the stairs just a few meters from his tower door.

"Cullen!"

Cassandra was at his side immediately. She said nothing while he pulled himself back together, Maker bless her, but stood at the ready to catch him should the pain overcome him again.

"It's getting worse?" It wasn't really a question. She had sensed the last of the lyrium leaving his system back in Haven. He'd been in full-blown withdrawal for weeks now, yet neither of them acknowledged it aloud. He had seen her watchful eye following him more frequently, and knew why she'd stayed behind in Skyhold for the first venture back into Ferelden. He was grateful for the silent support.

As the wave of pain and nausea waned, he nodded.

"You haven't slept. And the mess crew tell me you've not eaten in days, either."

There was no point in responding. She knew. They had agreed back in Kirkwall, when he took the position of Commander, that she would watch him for signs of danger as the cursed poison faded from his blood and mind. Lyrium was highly addictive and the withdrawal could easily destroy a body not strong enough to withstand the constant onslaught of pain, fever, and hallucinations. Few tried it, and of those who did, only stories of madness or death were well known. The Seeker would know the signs of danger, would know if and when he would need to return to the liquid's song. Yet so far she had only encouraged him more. If anyone could do it, she said, it was him. He would be a beacon of hope for those Templars seeking to leave the Chantry's control, a symbol of the Inquisition's strength.

And after everything he'd seen and been through for the Chantry, he simply couldn't bear returning to that life.

But on mornings like this, when the demons behind his eyes gnawed on the frayed edges of his nerves, and the world filled with swirling shadows and refused to stop tilting, he wondered if it was worth it. He'd already left the Templars and the Chantry, taking another draught of the stuff - just a small one, just to take the edge off...

... Would still be failure...

He was determined to set a new path and become a new man. While he could never undo the damage he let happen at Kirkwall, he would stop such tragedies from ever occurring again. He was eternally grateful to Cassandra for giving him that opportunity. It gave him an extra push on these days.

He filled his protesting lungs with a deep breath of the bracing mountain air.

"I will be fine, Lady Cassandra. Thank you."

She eyed him skeptically for a moment before responding. "Fine. But I want you to take it easy today. I will take over your training duties. I know you too well to ask that you do no work, but I insist you limit it to your planning work for Skyhold."

They began to walk toward the main hall where a temporary mess hall had been established.

"You have been doing good work with the restoration of the fortress. And Josephine tells me you've taken a special interest in appointing the Inquisitor's quarters..." She smirked at him knowingly.

"I - " The protest died on his lips. There was no use denying it to her. Not when he was in this pathetic condition. "Yes. She should have her privacy, and I'm sure she misses some of the comforts of her previous life."

"As a pirate? I don't believe she had a canopy bed or dwarven bathtub and privy on the boat." Her laugh always sounded a little awkward.

"But - Before that! She was... In Ostwick, I'm sure she..." He sighed. "I want her to be comfortable. After Haven, I can't..."

"Cullen, my friend, you mustn't blame yourself for what happened at Haven." She had stopped walking and placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. "We could never have anticipated an ancient darkspawn magister. Or a dragon. Ashara chose to stay behind. She has her reasons. She too carries a burden that is not hers to shoulder. She was at Dairsmuid when the Chantry invoked the Right of Annulment."

"She - ! She had mentioned that she'd been in Dairsmuid. That it was part of why she'd chosen the mages..."

"I will let her tell you herself what happened while she was there, though I cannot explain why she blames herself. Something about her family.

"She couldn't sleep or eat after she killed a rogue Templar who charged her outside the Crossroads. It was the first time she'd killed someone, though far from the first time she'd drawn blood. I've seen similar reactions from others who've survived massacres." She nodded toward him. "The memory of so much death and pain was still vivid. Still is, I fear."

How could she possibly blame herself for what the Chantry did in Dairsmuid? She was not a Templar, nor had she been part of the Chantry in any other way.

"Do you understand why I told you to talk to her? You have come through much, Commander. More than most could endure. You have both been close to the Chantry through your ties if not your faith—you through the Order, she through her family—and have seen the corruption and greed that has twisted it into a tool of those who lust for power. ... And you make each other happy. It's clear to anyone who looks."

His eyes widened and she laughed at his expression.

"Believe it or not, Cullen, I have been in love. I know the signs. And I believe I know you both well enough now to see where this could go. I encourage you to follow your heart. These are trying times and we all need someone to lighten our loads. And you of all people deserve some sweetness in your life." She nodded at him. "I've added some books to the list you've ordered for her personal library. Just some… frivolous stories to help her keep her mind off the dangers she faces. I believe you might... benefit from them as well."

She was smirking as she walked away.

Later that day, as he finalized the list of items still to be procured for the Inquisitor's chambers, he caught a glimpse of the additions Cassandra had made to the list. Swords and Shields, eh? Varric would be interested to know that Cassandra had read his books. And, Hessarian's beard, those were supposed to be even worse than the Orlesian fluff he'd seen her reading before.

Why would she think he would "benefit" from reading that smut? What was she implying?

He scowled and handed the list over to Josephine's runner.

"See that this is fulfilled as soon as possible. I want the Inquisitor's quarters finished before she returns to Skyhold."

"Yes, ser."

He would show her how he felt even if the lyrium took him before she returned.

He'd just have to be sure he left a note explaining the presence of the racy literature in her library first so she wouldn't think he was suggesting anything inappropriate...

*****

A week passed in fits and starts, some days and hours dragging on in excruciation, others flying by faster than could have been natural. In that time, most of the remaining items he'd requested for the Inquisitor's quarters had arrived. Overseeing the addition of these details to her rooms had alleviated his symptoms a little. As trade had opened up and the road to Skyhold been cleared, it had become shockingly easy for them to get the necessary furnishings and extra little touches like Tevinter cotton sheets and a silk velvet duvet, even a few bits of Antivan porcelain Josephine insisted the Inquisitor would need. The Orlesian, Fereldan, and Elvhen antiques the workers had found around the castle made the room all the more luxurious.

He hoped she'd like it. Thoughts of her face, lit up with delight at seeing the room—and the selection of casual finery with which Josephine and Leliana had stocked the Inquisitor's wardrobe—gave him something to look forward to, quelled the pain that had nearly become unbearable more than once while she was gone.

The day the Inquisitor was to return, though, his mood was blackened by a dreaded delivery.

He returned to his gatehouse tower from the main keep to find Rylen in place of his assistant. Not long after their safe arrival in Skyhold, Cullen had requested his second compile a census of soldiers, scouts, and hangers-on they'd lost in Haven or their escape.

The air went out of the room then. He was only vaguely aware of the commotion in the courtyard beneath him as the Inquisition's adventurers returned. At this point, though, he was in no shape to participate in the celebration. Rylen held the scroll in his hand, none of his trademark humor evident as he handed it to the Commander. It was long. Longer than he'd hoped. He knew it would not be easy to see, but he knew it necessary and proper. They must honor those who'd died serving their cause. Those who were not so lucky or blessed as the Inquisitor to escape that ultimate sacrifice.

The younger man simply nodded solemnly and left the room.

Cullen stood there for long minutes, reading the list. For all their efforts, they'd lost more lives after arriving in Skyhold. Hunger, sickness, injuries they couldn't adequately treat...

Another pang of guilt and anger washed over him, bringing the familiar onslaught of pain and whispers. His happy anticipation for Ashara's return drowned in the shadows with hardly a struggle.

Out of something almost instinctual, he pulled his lyrium kit off the bookshelves by his desk and stared at the carving of Andraste inside the lid. He had one last prepared philter in amongst the preparation tools. The rising cries of the dead would be silenced by the lyrium's song, he knew. And the pressure inside his skull would let up almost instantly. He'd be able to make it at least through the part when he would have to share the long list of his failures at Haven with the Inquisitor...

... But then he'd never be free of its chain. And never worthy of her love.

Was that how he'd come to think of this? Ashara had certainly been a balm, but had he made her into motivation as well? She was too good for a washed-up lyrium addict, that was certain... At some point he'd have to tell her about his decision to stop taking lyrium and the threat it posed. As the Inquisitor, if not as his friend. And maybe his lover someday if he were lucky... But he could not base this on his need for her love. He would not do her the dishonor of becoming his replacement addiction.

When he finally managed to surface, he enclosed the list in a pewter capsule similar to those he'd filled with the names of friends in Kinloch and Kirkwall. Once again, he found himself in the position of survivor when he should by all rights have been on the list of the dead. At least this time he was not the lone survivor and mourner. Leliana, who continued to insist on bearing the blame for what happened, would want to see the list and have a chance to contact the loved ones of her lost scouts.

He found Leliana in the rookery, kneeling before a small shrine. She stood as he approached and turned slowly as if composing herself. As Divine Justinia's Left Hand, he knew she had taken the events at the Conclave rather hard, and since arriving at Skyhold, she'd been more removed than even her usual.

"I'm sorry," she croaked as he handed her the capsule.

"So am I," he stated simply. Their eyes met for a brief moment before he turned and saw Ashara, a sweet look of concern on her face. It hurt to see her now, though some part of him still thrilled at her return. He couldn't face her in this moment so awash with guilt and shame.

He acknowledged her with only a dip of his chin as he hurried back to his tower to hide from his failure.

She found him not long after. Or maybe it was hours later.

He'd been hanging over the lyrium kit again and was stirred by the sound of her entrance. He knew it was her without looking up. She must have bathed; he could smell the soap Josephine had chosen for her—prophet’s laurel and embrium—and the way the air had started to shift lately whenever she drew near.

He sighed with resignation. Now was as good a time as any to tell her.

"As leader of the Inquisition, you..." He exhaled sharply and braced himself. "There's something I must tell you."

She stood before him, changed from her buckskin leathers into a tightly fitted Orlesian blue jacket over tan leather leggings. Without any kind of military clothing, she still looked powerful. And just as beautiful.

"Whatever it is, I'm willing to listen."

There was more than a little concern in her voice. She was more than just his superior officer. Her caring broke a bit of the pain.

"Right. Thank you." _On with it._ "Lyrium grants Templars our abilities. But it controls us as well." He hunched back over the desk. "Those cut off suffer... Some go mad. Others die."

He could feel her tensing. 

"We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here. But I... no longer take it." 

He thought he heard her breath stop. 

"You stopped?" 

"When I joined the Inquisition," he confirmed. "It's been months now." 

Her breathing resumed with a slight gasp. 

"Cullen! If this can kill you..." 

"It hasn't yet." 

_What's wrong with you, Rutherford? She's scared._ But he had to be frank. 

"After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn't. I will not be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it." 

He stood up through the cramping, assuming a posture of strength, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. He must reassure her, if not of his own safety in this, of hers. 

"But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to... watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved of duty." 

She was gnawing on her lower lip, eyes wide. "Are you in pain?" Her voice, deep and quiet. 

"I can endure it." 

She didn't look satisfied with the answer, but didn't press. "Thank you for telling me. I... respect what you're doing." 

"Thank you, Inquisitor." Ashara. "The Inquisition's army must always take priority. Should anything happen, I will defer to Cassandra's judgment." 

She still looked like she wanted to say more. Her eyes were wet and the corners of her mouth were drawing in. Rather than continue their conversation, though, she nodded at him then turned and left. He thought he heard a hitch in her breath as she reached the door. 


	10. Part I. Chapter 10.

Their shields clashed together and he pushed her lesser weight away from him. She wasn't trying very hard this morning. After his reveal the day before, she'd been unusually timid around him.

"You're not even trying, Ashara. Fight!"

She clenched her jaw and charged at him, her sword raised high. Still not trying. He turned her blade and thrust his own sword forward. Though she attempted to block the blow, he threw her off balance and brought her down.

He stood over her, the point of his practice blade at the delicate skin of her throat. "You know better than that, Ashara. Flank your enemies whenever possible. No one will remember how dramatic your failed frontal assault looked when you're slaughtered by a couple of bandits."

She grimaced and went limp on the ground. "Of course, Commander. I apologize. My mind is... elsewhere this afternoon."

He offered her a hand to help her back up, but she ignored it, rolling easily to her feet.

"Is everything alright, Inquisitor?" He dropped his voice low, though the practice yard was nearly empty at this hour. He felt better today than he had anytime while she was in the field, and he was hoping to make the most of their training session.

She shook her head, brushing dirt from her backside and avoiding his gaze.

"Ashara?"

She sighed now and wandered toward the water barrels. She filled her skin and climbed up to sit on the top rail of the low fence around the sparring ring. He leaned against the fence, close enough to her to catch her scent—citrus, flowers, and salt—beneath the fading perfume of her soap. She still avoided eye contact.

"Sorry, Cullen. I'm just really tired. I'm still recovering from the Fallow Mire, and I haven't slept well since... Haven..."

The air between them grew heavy.

"Then, well... You... telling me about the lyrium - that was brave, Cullen. I appreciate you sharing. Even if it was just for the Inquisition and not... whatever this might be." She waved her hand limply between the two of them. "And even though it scares the Void into me... Not that this is about me, of course! I really do respect and support your decision."

He was unsure how to respond.

"I think it's... immensely admirable that you're trying to build a new life, separate from everything you've known. And during such chaos. You're a remarkable man, Cullen."

His heart leapt and soared. Though he'd feared she might find the prospect of a man broken by his past and lyrium withdrawal off-putting, she was telling him...

"I feel like I should return the favor."

"My lady?"

She quirked an amused eyebrow at the reference to her nobility.

"You shared something deeply personal about yourself. I figure I should tell you something about myself."

"Oh! No, no. There's no need to--" He wanted to know everything.

She cut off his protestations with a gentle laugh and a hand on his vambrace. "I'd like to. But if that's too personal—if you'd rather keep this…" Her face fell and she pulled her hand back swiftly, as though his armor burned her.

Before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed her hand. "Not at all, my lady. I just don't want you to feel pressure to reveal any more of yourself than you feel necessary." 

_Well done, man. She actually looks touched._

She smiled shyly and squeezed his hand. "That's sweet, Cullen. Thank you."

They shared a silly smile for half a moment before she released his hand and pulled her sweat-damp chemise over her head.

"Ashara! I -" He turned his gaze away, blushing deeply.

Her laugh returned. "Cullen, it's okay. I'm still... well, _mostly_ decent. But I want to show you something. And it's nothing you haven't seen before."

His mind reeled for a moment, called back when she nudged him with her shoulder. He turned back to see her, still perched on the fence, in the short, tightly-laced half-bodice she'd been wearing on her early morning run in Haven when they'd first bonded. She had shifted so that her right side was fully visible to him, displaying the tattoo.

The spiraling Free Marcher-style of the tattoo shaped a pale horse - a destrier, to be more specific - rampant, wreathed in flame, and crowned, it seemed, with a blade.

"I had this done in Llomerryn before leaving Rivain for good after... Dairsmuid... Things happened there, and I..." She trailed off.

"Ashara, you don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with. What the Chantry did in Dairsmuid was inexcusable."

She sat quietly for a moment, staring off into the middle distance before returning to herself. "You're right. It was. It's good to see that not all Templars are crazed zealots. Knowing that there are... good men..." She looked at him through her lashes and smiled shyly as she trailed off.

"Um..." She cleared her throat and shook her head as if clearing it as well. "Has Josephine told you much about my family, the Trevelyans?"

"I..." She had, hadn't she? All he could think about was that smile, the expanse of smooth, almond-colored skin and the muscular flesh beneath, built not unlike the powerful animal carved into her side.

"The Trevelyan sigil is a warhorse. The family has bred horses for generations now. It's the only thing they pride in themselves more than their 'piety'. As much as I may reject my family and its values, I still identify with them. How can I not? They made me who I am. Bred like prize horses, all of us, really. But that person has been purified by flame, made something new and different. I made her a unicorn: powerful but graceful, courageous but gentle. Capable of undoing grave harms. The person I hope to— _try_ to—be."

_Maker, she's incredible._

"That's a... that's poetic - I don't mean to sound dismissive! I... ah... I only mean..."

Her hand was back on his vambrace. "It's okay, Cullen. I know what you meant. Or maybe I don't, but I know you aren't making fun of me or anything."

She was smiling at him. He tried to smile back without looking like a complete fool, but unsure if he was pulling it off.

"The reason I'm telling you this is because I know what it means to try to build a new life separate from everything you've known, to throw off your past and everything about it that has defined you for so long in order to make your own way. Not that my choices and what I've gone through are anywhere near the... the challenges of leaving the Templars and the Chantry after more than twenty years and after living through the rebellions, but... Well... I only wish to tell you that I can sympathize. And I admire you greatly for what you're doing. Please, if there's anything I can do to help in any way... I'm happy to..." The earnestness in her voice complemented the soft, pleading look in her eyes.

He moved to stand in front of her, taking her forearms in his hands and looking directly into her eyes. She may or may not have been Andraste's Herald, but surely she was sent by the Maker to calm his heart.

"Thank you, Ashara. That... means quite a lot to me. I must admit that I've not been close to anyone since Kinloch - "

She made a sad noise in her throat.

"- and only Cassandra knows about the lyrium. I didn't expect you to be so understanding, so kind. Thank you."

"Is that Captain Curly!?" The familiar voice broke through the weak trace of romantic tension he was hoping to build with Ashara.

_Hawke?_

He turned, and there she was. Varric, the grin on his face more than just his usual shit-eating, was leading the snarky apostate right toward them.

"Someone you know?" Ashara whispered, hopping off the fence as their company arrived.

"Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan, meet Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall. And a huge pain in my arse," he added under his breath, not without affection.

Both women's faces lit up with the introduction and they began showering one another with compliments and questions intended to confirm some of the wilder stories they'd heard from their mutual friend.

Cullen wanted desperately to get out of there before Hawke could say anything too embarrassing. "I'll leave you two to discuss business. I have reports to deal with." He fumbled out a hasty goodbye to Ashara before half-jogging away.

*****

Cullen took his time bathing and dressing again after he made it back to the safety of this tower. It wasn't that he disliked Hawke. She had certainly gotten quite efficient at getting under his skin back in Kirkwall, but he had come to appreciate her efforts to keep Kirkwall from falling to chaos before it ultimately did. While Anders had manipulated her into helping with his plan to blow up the Kirkwall chantry, she brought him to swift justice and did more than anyone else to stamp down the resulting uprising. She helped him see through Meredith before things got too bad. And there were a handful of times when she and her friends had helped him blow off steam...

It was her remarkable ability to throw him off balance, and her knowledge of that time of his life that he didn't want brought up in front of Ashara. Beyond the embarrassment, he didn't want to think about the darkest parts of that dark time while he felt like his attempts to rebuild were still fragile.

Besides, there was almost certainly work for him to do...

Unfortunately, he'd been all too productive while the adventuring crew had been in the field. No new reports had come in since he'd left the office to train with the Inquisitor. Most of the logistical work necessary for Skyhold's repairs was done, and Gatsi and the workers had proven more than competent, taking initiative where he currently preferred they might need help planning the proper execution. The soldiers' meals were all planned and the larders sufficiently stocked—and the cook threatened him with a meat tenderizer if he poked in her business any further.

He was a bit surprised when he looked up to find that he'd wandered into the garden where he found Dorian staring over a half-played game of chess. Cullen hadn't bothered getting to know the young magister—altus. He was an altus, not a magister, Cullen remembered now, though what exactly that meant...

"Ah! Commander! And what brings you here this evening? Other than my illustrious self, of course."

He momentarily contemplated pretending he didn't notice Dorian's greeting, but decided he had shown too much surprise to be able to pull it off. That, and he had gotten a good look at the position of the pieces on the chessboard.

Dorian had apparently opened with the Emperor's Gambit, and his opponent had responded with what looked like a clever twist on the Cunningham Defense.

"Who... Who are you playing with?"

"What? Oh, yes, this." Dorian hummed, then moved a rook. "Usually, I play with Bull. Or your darling Ashara. But they're off doing something far less interesting than consorting with devilishly handsome and wildly talented young men such as ourselves. Whatever it is, it must be good to keep my dear cousin from _your_ company, ser knight..."

"Your... cousin?"

"Ooh! You must not know, not being part of the complicated web of Tevinter bloodlines. You southern Fereldans are blessedly remote enough to not be related. If only they were all such fine examples of manhood as yourself... But I digress—rather gladly considering the subject." He leered cartoonishly at the Commander, trying and failing to get a rise. "Ashara and I are cousins somewhere way down the line. And she fancies you, you know."

The blood rushing through his ears was deafening. He... knew, he guessed, that she was interested, she had as much as said so before everything fell to shite back in Haven. Hearing it from someone she had been spending a fair amount of time with was something different, though.

The mage was smirking at him beneath his thoroughly waxed mustache.

"Care to join me? Judging by the way you're eyeing the board, you're as intrigued by this little conundrum as I. Black or white, ser knight?"

The mage was no inconsiderable talent. By the time they'd wrapped their game—which passed, surprisingly, in almost complete silence—Cullen figured Ashara would have completed her conversation with the Champion. The sun had sunk well below the ridgeline, casting elongated shadows across the garden, and drawing out a few couples seeking the privacy of the gardens.

"Well played, Commander. I'd been looking for a way through that defense for years. Clearly, I haven't found it yet. Might I buy you a drink as your victor's spoils?"

He found himself agreeing to the offer before he could think up an excuse. It would be nice, really, to spend some time amongst the other members of the Inquisition. His withdrawal symptoms weren't preventing him as they usually might and he had rather enjoyed himself in Dorian's company. With any luck he might even get a chance to speak with Iron Bull about the bizarre siege tactic Bull had been practicing with the Chargers and every shield in the armory.

*****

The Herald's Rest was bustling. Word had gotten out that Hawke was at Skyhold, and everyone but Cassandra seemed to be crammed into the bar. The Champion had taken up court in a corner, flanked by Varric and Ashara, who was flushed and laughing, her blue jacket unbuttoned and open all the way down to her...

"The Inquisitor _is_ rather fetching, isn't she?"

"Hm?" He blushed, realizing he'd been caught staring at her.

Dorian released a dramatic laugh and clapped him on the back. "No worries, ser knight. She hasn't realized you're here yet. Give her a little more time, a few more drinks, and then once she sees you, she'll be in your lap and petting that absurdly gorgeous hair of yours."

Cullen stammered something about propriety and blushed deeper, thankful for the ability to hide behind the massive tankard the surly bartender passed him.

By his second ale and Dorian's fourth (or was it fifth?) glass of wine, the crowd was beginning to thin out and Cullen found himself rather liking the sharp wit and intelligence of his impromptu drinking buddy. While Dorian loved his country and its various charms, he was very critical of its politics and highly-regimented social order. Cullen even found himself agreeing with the mage on more than a few fine points about the direction of the Inquisition and its leader.

Not to say that he was disappointed when the Iron Bull caught Dorian's eye and waved them over to take two seats that had just opened when a scout and one of the Chargers who'd been getting increasingly handsy with one another finally decided to take their activities somewhere more private.

As they approached the table, Sera left her place beside Ashara to take one of the newly-opened spots, pulling Dorian into the other spot, and leaving Cullen no choice than to sit next to the Inquisitor. Not that he didn't want to sit next to her with every fiber of his being, but he'd been drinking and there were so many other people around, and Hawke was there and would be sure to say something that would embarrass him.

The Inquisitor slapped the end of the bench beside her as she and Hawke playfully jostled one another.

"Commander! Yay! Come sit by meeeeeee!" She must have been drinking for a while.

He gingerly wedged himself into the space beside her, careful not to sit too close and seem too forward with her.

A pointless endeavor as she immediately embraced him in an awkward one-armed hug, burying her face in the fur of his mantle.

"I was hoping you'd come join us tonight! I never get to see you outside of work-work-work and, oooooh I love the way you smell. Your cloak. Your cloak smells. I like it." She collapsed in giggles. "I'm so sorry, Cully. I've been drinking and I'm afraid I'm a bit silly."

_"Cully"..._

"A bit?" he teased, blushing but happy for the attention and hoping the dim light and abundant alcohol would hide it.

"You've got quite the Inquisitor here, Cullen. And not bad on the eyes, eh boys?" Hawke needled.

Varric shook his head at the ceiling and Dorian laughed while Sera, Krem, and Blackwall toasted to the Inquisitor's beauty.

"Oh, Maker, you arseholes!" She buried her face in Cullen's mantle again, this time to hide her blushing.

He glowered at them all, trying to think up an appropriate response before Iron Bull added: "Let's not forget that she's saved all of our sorry asses more than once."

This time, the entire table and several nearby gave a cheer for their leader. Iron Bull gave Cullen a knowing look, which Cullen returned with a slight nod of acknowledgement. Despite his often-ribald humor and lack of manners, Bull had proved himself to be a gentleman in addition to an effective military leader. Cullen was grateful for the massive man's presence—and battle-axe—at Ashara's side.

"Oh c'mon, Boss. We've all seen the way you look at the Herald," Krem interjected.

Bull bristled. "I can appreciate a person's appearance as much as anyone. But the boss is off limits. Besides, I'm more into redheads."

"Quizzy's kind of a redhead," Sera slurred.

Hawke pretended to inspect Ashara's braids. "I guess you could call this red... In some lights..."

"It's really only when I'm wet - " As soon as the words left her mouth, Ashara's hands went to her face, as she realized the potential double entendre.

Which was not missed by her companions, who roared with laughter.

"I can help with that, Quizzy," Sera volunteered with a leer and a lewd hand gesture.

"I think she'd be more interested in the Commander's help," Hawke quipped.

They both blushed an impressive shade of red.

"Change of subject!" Ashara shouted over the raucous group. "Let's talk about Hawke. She's far more interesting!"

The next hour passed quickly. Cullen enjoyed hearing Varric and Hawke recount some of their more ridiculous adventures in Kirkwall, and found himself even more grateful for the loyalty and martial skill of Ashara's friends when the subject of the tales circled around to her exploits for the Inquisition. Before he knew it, most of the group had drifted off to their beds, and the barmaids were gathering up empty tankards and glasses.

"Well, I think it's time we get some rest, eh Hawke?" Varric rose, nudging his old friend.

"I couldn't agree more, my friend. It's been a long day. Ashara, it's been good to get to know you. I can't say I'm looking forward to working with you considering what—and who—is involved, but I'm certain that you'll be able to stop this madness."

The two women embraced warmly. They surely had plenty to bond over, and it made his glad to see that they'd connected.

"And Cullen, it truly is good to see you again. You seem to be doing well. I'm glad. You're a good man. I trust you'll take good care of my new friend here. Starting by making sure she finds her way to her own bed tonight?"

He and Ashara were both blushing again as Hawke left them alone.

He laughed nervously. "I suppose I should see you safely to your quarters, my lady."

He got that entire sentence out without his voice cracking once despite looking forward to the prospect of walking alone with her, maybe getting another kiss on the cheek. 

In the half-moment it took for her to tuck her arm around his, the events of their last time drinking together played through his mind.

"I would appreciate that greatly, ser knight."

Her gently playful grin set his heart reeling.

It was cold outside of the tavern, and he felt privileged to once again wrap his cloak around her shoulders.

She hummed as she pulled it tighter around herself. "I love this thing."

He knew his grin was silly but didn't care. "It looks good on you."

She giggled.

_She giggled._

"It's really warm. And it smells good. Like incense and leather and... you..."

She blushed prettily and pulled the mantle up to hide her face.

He was overcome with a tidal wave of emotion (propelled, of course, by a healthy serving of ale). He stepped forward and brushed a bit of fur away from her face.

"It smells even better after you wear it."

_Well said, Rutherford. You might actually manage to not make a complete idiot of yourself in front of her!_

"But I believe, my lady, that I should be focused on getting you in out of the cold. It is my duty as a knight and servant of the Inquisition to ensure the safety and comfort of the Inquisitor."

She giggled again. He couldn't believe how easily the words flowed. 

Maybe it was the fact that they'd both been drinking, or the relaxing effect of the day's camaraderie, or the way the moons reflected along the curves of her face and the flickering of the torches caught in the copper and gold of her hair, but he felt like he could be the knight in an old story, charming and courting the heroine.

"Cullen, you're too much. Or I drank too much." She breathed out a laugh. "Whatever it is, though, I like it. Don't stop."

She winked and snuggled against his shoulder, taking his arm in hers.

"Escort me?"

He smiled, unguarded. "Of course."

They walked slowly, partially due to her tipsiness, but mostly to make the walk back to the main keep longer, give themselves more time in semi-private company with one another.

'I'm glad you came out tonight, Cullen. It seems like you just live in that tower all by yourself. I've never really seen you having fun. I like seeing you happy. You're even cuter when you're happy..."

_Oh, Maker..._

"... Even cuter than when you blush, and that is just too adorable."

She bumped her hip against his. Something stirred deep inside him.

"I am glad as well, my lady." His voice was husky, thick. "I rather enjoy your company outside of the sparring ring and the war room."

She didn't respond immediately. A few steps farther, she reached down and squeezed his hand, wrapping her fingers around his.

The movement caused the cloak to shift awkwardly from her shoulder. She released his hand and over-compensated reaching to catch the heavy mantle and stumbled over her own feet.

"Oops!" she squeaked, right as he grabbed her and pulled her against him to steady her.

Her chest was pressed against his. He cursed his ever-present armor for preventing him from feeling the heat of her body, the soft swell of her bust. She looked up and their lips were mere inches apart. He wanted so to close that distance, to pull life from those pouty lips. It made his entire being ache.

But she was drunk, and acting far more familiar and physically gregarious than she normally might. It wouldn't be right to take advantage of her intoxication. She wasn't herself right now, could not give the consent he needed to move their interaction in that direction. He could never violate her trust like that.

But, oh, the sound of her breath, so close...

Instead, he righted the cloak, wrapping her tightly in its warmth again, never breaking eye contact.

_Like pools of silverite..._

She reached up and traced the line of his eyebrow.

"Cully, your eyes are sooooo pretty. Like topaz... The stone for Firstfall..." She tilted her head and a new kind of smile tickled along her perfect lips. "Topaz represents virtue, did you know that?" She hummed. "My virtuous knight. Brave and strong and - "

She hiccuped and her heavy-lidded eyes popped open wide before she dissolved with a fit of giggles.

His heart went tumbling. She was the most wondrous experience he'd yet had. He would write poetry for her.

"Sorry!" She tried to straighten up, stumbling again. This time, he felt her heat against his unarmored thigh.

He struggled to ignore thoughts about the source of that heat...

_Not now! Get her safely to her room. Be a gentleman. ...Then maybe think about it when you're in bed._

He pulled himself together and shook his head clear. She was the Inquisitor. He shouldn't entertain such thoughts about her. Though it wouldn't be the first time...

"Careful now, my lady." He chuckled softly. "Let's get you home, shall we? Will I need to carry you?"

Another laugh. He could spend the rest of his life trying to make her laugh.

"I don't think that will be necessary, ser knight."

They shared a hummed laugh and resumed their walk, a warm silence settling around them.

When they reached the outer door to her chambers, he paused. How far should he escort her? Would it be too forward, inappropriate to escort her to the upper door to her room? 

She fumbled with the key. That staircase might be a bit of a precarious venture for her at this point...

He pulled off his glove to better feel the delicate key and unlocked the door for her.

"Will you make sure I actually get to my door, Cull'n? I'm not sure how well I'm going to handle the stairs. And it's dark in there sometimes." She pouted a bit at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief and Antivan port.

"Is that... I'm sorry... I don't mean to..."

Seeing _her_ stumble over her words sent a bolt through him. The Inquisitor was getting flustered around _him._

"Not at all, Ashara. I don't want you falling over the railing. Or stubbing a toe in the dark." 

He offered a reassuring smile and held open the door. 

"After you, my lady." 

It was indeed rather dark in the stairwell, with only a single candle still burning in the candelabra outside of her bedroom door. When she opened the door, he could feel the draught blowing in. Had she left the balcony doors open? The final flight of stairs was pitch dark. Had no one left any candles burning for her? Where were the staff assigned to her quarters? 

He took the only remaining lit candle, careful not to accidentally blow out the flame. He would have to escort her all the way up, then. 

"It's so cold," she shivered. "Josie and I had a long talk on the balcony this afternoon while Varric was giving Hawke a tour of the grounds. I must have forgotten to close the doors behind us when we came back inside!" 

"Do you not have a fire burning?" He had personally ensured the fireplace would be adequate for the room and had ordered a fresh supply of firewood be brought to her room at least once a day when she was on the premises. 

"No... I gave the staff you assigned me the night off..." 

"Ashara! You'll freeze! You shouldn't be lighting a fire tonight, as... stumbly... as you are right now. Should I send for someone?" 

"No, no! I'm a big girl. I can light my own fire. I don't like people scrambling around to take care of me. I may be noble-born, but I am capable of taking care of myself." 

There was a tinge of bitterness in her words that he would have to help ease before he left. 

"Would you be amenable to _me_ lighting a fire for you? I know how... capable you really are, but I would feel terrible if you burned yourself or fell asleep without a fire." 

The thought of her being cold again, even if only a little, plucked a minor chord inside him. 

"Well... I _guess_ I can be alright with that." She smiled. "But the way you're holding that candle, I'm a bit nervous about you playing with fire now too." 

"What?" 

He looked down at the candle he held right as a thin stream of melted wax drizzled onto his hand. He hissed between his teeth at the mild burn. She responded with remarkable alacrity, grabbing the candle from him before he could burn himself again, and raising his burnt hand to her mouth with her other hand. She kissed the burned spot gently. 

Her lips were simultaneously cold from being outside, and sensuously warm from simply being part of her. His heart fluttered in his chest. 

"Are you okay?" she breathed against his hand. 

"I... I think I'll be alright." 

"You sure?" Her eyes were playful again. 

"I'm sure. It's a nasty burn, but with a little hope and a lot of ointment, I'm sure I can pull through." 

She chuckled and pressed her lips to the reddened but hardly hurt spot again. "If you say so, my valiant knight." 

He brushed her jawline with his thumb as he pulled his hand away and smiled. "Now how about I get that fire going so you can get a good night's sleep, hm?" 

She hummed. "That sounds brilliant." 


	11. Part I. Chapter 11.

It was dark in her room, the fire burned down to just a handful of embers. The thin light of the taper made little difference in the cavernous space.

She tripped over a knapsack she must have thrown on the floor when she returned.

"Careful!"

He reached out his free hand to steady her. She giggled and thanked him breathlessly.

He realized his hand was resting in the small of her back, the curve of her shapely bottom a hairsbreadth from the tips of his fingers. He twitched at the thought of caressing the swells of firm feminine flesh then jerked his hand back, rebuking himself.

He re-centered. "I think it might be best for you to just sit down somewhere safe where you can't break your neck, Inquisitor," he suggested playfully.

"Mebbe that's best..." She flopped onto the plush Orlesian sofa and released a breathy hum. "This thing is so ridiguluss looking but soooooo comfy. Come sit with me?" She thumped the cushion besides her.

He couldn't help but laugh to himself. He'd seen her drunk before—that night by the lake when their hands touched—but this was something entirely different. Instead of tears, there were giggles. And she kept using diminutives and flirty pet names instead of his name. She seemed relaxed more than anytime she might have been since they met, and genuinely happy. Hawke may have been a bad influence (though, truth be told, with her group of friends in Kirkwall, it was hard to say who was corrupting who...), but he was grateful to her for getting Ashara to relax and enjoy life so freely. If only Ashara hadn't drunk so much he would try to...

"Cully? Wut'srong?"

He was staring at her, his expression likely a bit foolish. He looked away. "I, ah... I'm glad you like the sofa. Josephine insisted on the Orlesian style, but I made sure it would be comfortable for you. A place to read or just relax after a long ride..."

She sat up straight. "Wait - _you_ did this? You made my room all nice and fancy and stuff?"

He rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his hair until he realized what he was probably doing to his curls. "Well... Yes. With Josephine's help, of course. ...And Cassandra picked out some of the books..."

She bounded to his side and squeezed him tightly around his chest. 

She fit so nicely against his body...

"Thank you! That'sooo sweet! It's the prettiest room. So fancy! I feel like a princess!"

He chuckled and tenderly peeled her arms from him so he could see her face, now lit up like a sunrise over Lake Calanhad. "Only the best for our Inquisitor. I wanted you to have a place to hide away, recover from your missions in the field. It must feel like you have the world on your shoulders, but you won't have to carry all of this alone. I'll always be here for you, and this place is the Inquisition's way of saying thank you for everything you've done—are doing—for us all. You deserve all the best things in the world. Softness and warmth..."

His hand was cupping her cheek. She tilted her beautiful face toward him, her lips parting slightly. Her breath was shallow and shaky. Her eyes shone.

He was getting carried away.

"I... I should, um, get that fire going now... yes?"

He turned away and set to work rebuilding the fire, trying to hide his blush, his shaking breath, and the tightness behind the lacings of his leather hosen. He heard a sigh and then a heavy thwomp as she plopped onto the couch.

Maker, she was a whirlwind of a woman. As the Inquisitor, she was professional, efficient, unflinching in the face of the challenges Corypheus and the world kept throwing in her path. As Ashara, she was passionate, silly, playful. Whether she was on duty or off, she was... Beautiful, yes, but there was something more. Something that went beyond beauty. His attraction to her transcended the lust she so casually stirred in his belly. He admired her bravery, her commitment, and loyalty. Her sharp mind and tender heart—was he the only one who'd seen that soft side of her, unmasked by duty or effected brazenness?—were like no other he'd met in his more than years. He was simultaneously comfortable and nervous around her. He wanted to sink into her warmth but was still afraid to let himself go, to be so vulnerable. After what the demons at Kinloch had done with his puppy love for Solona—and what his nightmares did with the memory of that—he was afraid to fully admit to the powerful emotion he knew would spring loose the moment he relaxed the fear.

And what then?

Would he be able to love her the way he wanted, the way she deserved, after everything he'd been through? She deserved a lover who would take his—or _her_ , he remembered—time and court her like the lady she was. Who would bring her flowers and little tokens of affection, serenade her with songs of devotion. She should be swept off her feet, treated to every delight and delicacy love could offer. Whoever won her heart would have to prove himself worthy, match her own bravery and strength. Loving her would be a passionate affair. She would be away for days, weeks, possibly months. The moments they would share would be as precious as she, and must be savored and enjoyed to the last second. When she returned home from her adventures and trials she must be comforted, pampered by an adoring lover who would give her anything her heart desired. Her lover should lift the weight of her duties from her wary shoulders, massage and kiss away the pain and tension of being Inquisitor. He would bring pleasure to every inch of her being - her emotional and intellectual self as well as the physical... Oh Maker, how he would pleasure her, caress every soft curve, memorize the angles of her gorgeous face, taste her lips, the salt of her skin, the honey of her—

"Is the fire really that interesting, Cully? Or did you somehow fall asleep like that?"

The fire was blazing, almost too hot at this close distance. When had he even lighted it?

He cleared his throat, shaking the image of her quivering thighs from his head.

"Just, um... wanted to make sure it won't burn out too soon."

He turned back toward her and had to look away, rubbing the back of his neck, to avoid blushing even harder. Maker's breath, she was beautiful, and the way she looked wrapped in his cloak...

"Come sit with me? I won't be able to fall asleep yet, and we haven't really been able to spend any time together since..." She trailed off. The silliness from earlier had gone out of her voice.

When he looked at her again, her expression had become more earnest. Her eyes were plaintive and looked almost like she was trying to hold back tears.

"Ashara, are you okay?" He closed the short distance between them and sat on the edge of the sofa, not too close. "Why the sudden change?"

"Hm? Oh... I..." She sighed a laugh. "I guess I missed you is all..."

_She missed me?!_

"You missed me?"

She looked away and giggled almost silently. "Ohhh, I'm drunk... But it's true. I've missed you. The things we saw in the Fallow Mire... Does it ever get easier? At least killing undead isn't really taking a life... Cassandra wasn't there, and I like my other companions but we're not _that_ close yet... And it was so cold and wet and miserable there. Lying in my tent at night, I... I kept thinking of you." She paused, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "That sounds... well." She cleared her throat. "I wanted someone to talk to who knew me. And cold makes me... You... Why is this so hard? You were the one who kept me warm, kept me from getting hypothermia after Haven... Being cold and lonely and a little messed up mentally made me want you. Um. Want you to be with me. Oh, Andraste's flaming quim! You know what I'm trying to say, right?"

"Of course, I - "

"Not that I'm denying anything." It was whispered, almost inaudible over the crackling of the fire. He might have imagined it.

"I need water..." She looked around, still unfamiliar with her new surroundings after only one night in the massive canopy bed.

"Here, let me." He squeezed her knee gently and went to the antechamber he'd had stocked with barrels of fresh water, ale, wine, and mead. He had made sure she wouldn't want for anything, could hide away there for days.

When he returned to the sofa, she had tucked herself into a ball under his cloak. She took the heavy ceramic mug from him, sipped, and pulled the mug inside her cocoon.

"Are you still cold? Would you like me to get a blanket."

"No, no. Just sit. Stay with me a while? You're warm..."

He was. A little too warm, in fact.

He sat down again, careful not to seem too eager. She scooted closer to him and leaning her head against his shoulder.

"You know, this would be easier if you didn't wear that heavy armor all the time."

He chuckled and turned a little, opening himself to let her settle closer. She read his body language and complied with a grin, resting her head on his breastplate. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer to tuck her under his chin. He could feel the suggestion of her shape under the cloak. It was exquisite torture.

"Better, my lady?" How was his voice even still functioning?

She hummed. "Yes. But the armor is still... I need to institute new uniforms."

They shared a warm laugh.

"And no more of this 'my lady' stuff. Not tonight. I do like the flirting, but I really just want to hear my name. My actual name. Especially from you. I like how it sounds when you say it. Your Fereldan accent... and your voice is just..." She giggled shyly. "I like it?"

He wasn't sure how to react.

She sighed. "Thank you. This is nice... I like cuddling. Even if there's armor in the way."

She angled her face up, smiling for him. He responded by squeezing her gently, tucking her head under his chin, though he desperately wanted to dip his head down and taste the wine on her lips.

He inhaled deeply and slowly through his nose. She smelled like summer. He wanted to bury his nose in her hair, press his lips to the crown of her head. But he wasn't sure that even this was appropriate, holding her like this, when she'd been drinking. They'd never been so physically intimate. In fact, he'd never seen her this close with anyone. He hadn't been so close to anyone since... Since he carried her limp form into the valley, cradled her while the healers did their work.

Maker, he wanted to hold her tighter, keep her safe from anything like that ever happening again.

"You know, I don't think I've... been this... Ah..." He exhaled a frustrated laugh. "I haven't... _cuddled_ with anyone in a very long time."

She stiffened.

"Is this too much? I know... You said there were... in your past, and..."

He rubbed her arms with reassurance. This version of Ashara: shy, vulnerable, silly... He liked it.

"Not at all, Ashara. This is... nice."

"Good," she whispered.

They sat quietly for a while, Ashara occasionally taking a sip from her mug.

"You saw my scars, didn't you? When the healers were... Dorian said you stayed there as long as they'd let you, warming me up so I wouldn't..."

Her flesh had been like ice, chilled so deeply he'd felt like he would have to press the warmth back into her. She had been covered in blood, too much of it her own. Her tattoo had been unrecognizable, just darker lines on top of angry blossoms of purple and black.

"I... um... Yes, but - "

"It's okay, Cullen. I don't care if you 'looked' or not. Even though I know you didn't. You're too much of a gentleman." She hummed and pressed into him slightly. "And you saved my fucking life. If you saw my... whatever while you were saving my life..."

She sat quietly for a while, stock still. He was starting to suspect she'd drifted off into a drunken sleep when she spoke up again.

"It happened at Dairsmuid... When the Chantry..."

"Ashara," he spoke softly. "You don't have to tell me if it hurts."

"No, no... I... I want to. Maybe it's the booze, or my gratitude for this amazing room and everything else. But, no. No, I think I've wanted to tell you for a while. I've wanted to share my... myself with you. You... Oh, Andraste's ass, I am drunk." She sighed. "Sorry. If I get a little weepy or overly affectionate, just attribute it to Hawke's bad influence and Antiva's delicious, delicious port. Please? Because I might - no, I will cry once I start talking, and Maker knows what else might come out of my mouth. I tend to get really chatty and emotional when I'm drinking. In case you haven't noticed. Pretty sure I've already said plenty..."

He couldn't help but chuckle, and had to fight the urge to kiss her brow.

"I promise not to judge. Or hold anything against you."

She relaxed again. The feel of her weight shifting against him stirred the primal part of him he was constantly working to keep in check. Even through his leather and armor, and the cloak and her clothing, he could feel the soft places, the swells of her femininity.

"Thank you."

She took a slow breath.

"I... had a lover at Dairsmuid. He was a Templar stationed at the Circle. His name was Aly. He was a good man...

"The Circle at Dairsmuid was different than they are in Ferelden and Orlais and... the Marches. Rivain is so different from the rest of Thedas in a lot of ways. The mages there aren't... feared. They come and go from the Circle as they wish. And there are these women, called seers. Some people call them 'hedge witches', but they're so much more. They commune with spirits--" She must have felt him tensing. "—But not like... They never feared possession or temptation by demons. I never heard of one... Anyway. Isabela and I met these women—Marina and Cathlyn. They were mages, seers. And a lot of fun... We became friends. Rather close...

"That's how I met Aly. He wasn't like the Templars I met in Ostwick. More like... you." She sounded almost shy.

He caressed her shoulder with his thumb, wondering if she could feel it through all the layers, the thick great bear fur of his mantle.

"It's not like we were in love. We weren't going to get married and... have... kids..." He could see her eyes growing wet. "But it was fun. And he was so different from the men I'd dealt with since leaving Ostwick.

"Isabela had another mess she had to clear up and didn't want to take me with her... Afraid I'd get hurt, I guess. So she'd dropped me in Dairsmuid. Safer than Llomerryn for a noblewoman pirate. And she trusted Aly to keep me out of trouble.

"I had been sending money to Marina and Cathlyn for a while. Apparently some other nobles from across Thedas had been helping to support the Dairsmuid Circle. I don't know what compelled the others, but for me, it was about supporting my friends. The seers did a lot for people in the city. Feeding, healing... Really, everything I did in the Crossroads and whenever we come across folks who need help when we're out in the field... that's as much in memory of those two as out of basic human decency.

"It seemed only right to send money to my friends to help their work. What need did I have of the stuff we got from waylaying slavers and crooked merchants? I mean, I kept a _few_ things. Trinkets. Little mementos from our adventures at sea and the strange towns we'd stop in. Most of them lost now..."

_Haven._

She sighed.

"I don't know how the Chantry found out. I'd always sent letters to my cousin, the Templar in Ostwick, but she had promised to not tell the rest of the family anything about my whereabouts, what I was up to. I know I told her about Aly—how could I not?—but I don't recall writing anything about funding the 'heretics' in Dairsmuid. Maybe a messenger got waylaid. Or some nosy Chantry cleric recognized me. Maybe it wasn't me at all, but... How could it not have been? Some members of my family were looking for me still after all those years. Almost like there was a bounty on my head. My cousin in the Order said some folks were still trying to get to my dowry. I'd always been too... rambunctious to be dedicated to the Chantry, so my parents thought they could marry me off to some other noble family, improve our lot by marrying me off to a wealthier family. An Orlesian, maybe..." She shook her head. The tears were threatening to spill over, pooling along her lower lips. "That's a story for another time, though...

"However they found out, the Chantry was furious to hear that members of the nobility had been supporting Dairsmuid. They..." Her voice cracked.

He made a sympathetic sound, squeezed her bicep.

She sniffled. The tears were starting to tip over and roll down her cheeks.

"... Annulment... I was... I was there."

A pang of guilt for his vicious words to Solona when she returned to the Circle. This amazing woman had lived through the horror he'd begged. His heart swelled and sank at the same time. If she knew...

She took a deep breath, determined to continue.

"I was with Aly. In bed. I had a little room Marina and Cathlyn had set up for me while I was staying there. Aly would slip out of the barracks, come to me at night... When the March arrived... Cathlyn didn't make it. They came to warn us. Poor Aly didn't even get a chance to get his armor on. The Knight-Commander himself found us. There was Aly, in the company of two apostates, heretics... and one of the noblewomen whose actions brought them there. Treason, they said. At least it was quick...

"Marina tried to fight. Cathlyn. Oh, Maker, what they did to that poor, sweet girl. She was only sixteen, an apprentice. They... In the end, she begged them to just kill her.

"Marina threw fireballs, trying to keep them away. The way the Templars angled their shields... I've never felt anything so painful in my entire life. And that's counting Haven. I must have blacked out. I just remember waking to an elder seer trying to heal the worst of the burns so I could get out of there. She'd been away, tending to a group of widows who'd taken up some kind of commune... I don't know. But she had returned to the Circle just as the Chantry declared its bloody victory.

"I was the only survivor. I guess since I wasn't a mage, they didn't bother checking to make sure I was actually dead... My friends...

"Aly...

“Oh, gods..."

She couldn't go on. Her voice had become too choked to continue. Her face was streaked with tears.

He was torn. He knew the guilt of survival, the cruelty of the Chantry... But he'd also been the hand on the sword. And had turned a blind eye...

He let her cry for a few minutes, unsure what to do. He wanted to dry her tears. He wanted to run away in shame.

She wiped at her tears.

"I told you I'm an emotional drunk." She sniffled. "Sorry. It's a lot to just dump on someone, I know, but... I wanted to explain the burns, why I can be a little... weird sometimes."

"You can't blame yourself, Ashara. The Chantry - "

"It's okay, Cull. Whether it was my fault or not, it is a motivator. Does that make sense? It's one of the reasons why I wanted to stay with the Inquisition after we closed the Breach, before everything went to shit in Haven."

She sat up straight again.

"I need to wash my face. I'm afraid I'm a mess."

She was, of course, beautiful. Her eyes were red, her hair disheveled, and the blush of the port still stained her cheeks. The mix of emotions he twisted through was thrown into further chaos seeing her like that, raw and exposed.

"But, lucky me, whoever built this place got running water to this chamber and _someone_ saw to it that the water still runs now..."

He sat alone in her private quarters, examining this... thing, this part of herself that she had given him so freely. This intimacy, borne at least in part from her drunkenness, was not what he had expected. This felt so much more... intense than sex. What he had done, who he had been and was trying to change... It shook his conscience as though he'd taken advantage of her drunkenness.

"Cullen? Are you okay?"

Her voice was still soft, kind. She didn't know...

"I'm sorry. Was that too much? Oh, I should have known better! With everything that you've been through, telling you that was so dumb!"

"No! Ashara, no. I... You've done nothing wrong." He stood, took her hand. "You... I'm sorry you had to..."

She squeezed his hand.

"Well, now you know about my scars, let's not talk about that any more tonight."

She flashed him a smile.

"I'm still a bit tipsy, so maybe I'll tell you a happy story?"

He gladly listened to her as she giggled her way through a rather scandalous description of the first time she and Isabela visited Antiva. Seeing her mood pick up, hearing her musical laugh, eased him. By the time she finished her story, both of them blushing and laughing uncontrollably, the heaviness had been dispelled. The wide range of emotions they'd been through together over the course of the night was acting like an intangible web, spinning around them and pulling them closer. He could feel the space between them changing. It was thrilling, terrifying, mystifying. He wanted to stay right there until the Fade took him, but...

"It's getting so late. I really should try to get some sleep. I think I might have to leave for Crestwood as soon as the day after tomorrow to go find Hawke's friend..."

She stood from her place on the sofa slowly, as if reluctant to say goodnight. He followed, unquestionably reluctant.

"Thank you for this evening, Cullen. I hope I didn't behave too badly while I was drunk."

"Not at all." He dared to reach out and touch her cheek, gently sweep a few frizzy curls away from her sea-colored eyes. "This was a very welcome diversion. I... I missed your company as well."

She lowered her eyes, a sweet, nervous smile crossing her lips.

"Did you... um... Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?"

"No... I'm afraid I made few friends there," (he'd been an utter mess, truth be told), "and my family's in Ferelden."

"So... No one... caught your interest?"

_Is she...? Still? Even though..._

"Not in Kirkwall..." He somehow managed to keep his voice steady, that voice she liked so much.

"That's very good to know."

The walk back to his tower was shorter than he remembered it being before. His mind was going in a hundred directions at once.


	12. Part I. Chapter 12.

If this wasn’t what it felt like to die…

Every cell of his being screamed in pain. The headache was stronger than any he’d yet experienced. The light filtering through the leaves over the hole in his ceiling gouged at his eyes, and the smell of the grease in his hair was enough to make him vomit if he hadn’t already thrown up everything in his body. The retching only added to the cramping of his abdominal muscles. 

This wasn’t a hangover. He hadn’t drunk nearly enough. This was… How could the symptoms be getting so much stronger still? It had been months, now. 

Cassandra had warned him that his failure to take care of himself would only make things worse, weaken his mind and body. But this? 

He would have preferred death.

No.

No, that wasn’t true.

He’d found something in the last few weeks. Something he’d wanted for ages. That he’d convinced himself was out of his reach, would never happen for him. But he’d found it, and last night, he’d actually —

A new wave of pain lanced through his head, the screech of demons deafened him. His body spasmed and shivered violently as desire demons shredded his insides. 

Guilt. For surviving. Twice. For allowing Meredith to put so many innocents to the brand. For going along with the brutality of the Order and participating in the slaughter. For ignoring the vile actions of his Templar brethren in Kirkwall. For letting her sacrifice herself. For putting her in that danger. For killing her. It tore at him with rusty, jagged claws. Sank its barbs deep into his flesh before tearing away the illusion that he’d begun to repent and rebuild.

This torture was his punishment for daring to… to what? All he’d done was spend some time with a charming, beautiful woman who had repeatedly told him she was interested in him. She had bared her soul, confided in him. Because she trusted him. That extraordinary human being, the Inquisitor, found comfort in him, enjoyed his company and even sought it out. He had done nothing wrong in allowing himself the indulgence of her attentions last night. There was no sin in emotional intimacy with… a friend. 

The knots in his stomach let up enough to allow his breathing to return to normal. He pushed through the darkness. Ashara had become his friend. One of the first he’d had since… Since he’d allowed himself to fall victim to the demons. They’d fought at one another’s sides. Confided in one another. Though they’d disagreed, argued, she still respected and asked his opinion at the war table. And still…

The image of her smile—directed at him—pushed away more of the pain. The memory of her laugh calmed the tension in his muscles, stilling the shivering. He could still feel the pressure of her weight rested against his side and shoulder as they sat together in her chambers. It slowed his racing heart.

Maybe they would never be lovers. That was probably too much to ask. Even as his head cleared, his damaged psyche no longer amplifying the withdrawal symptoms, he knew any kind of romantic relationship with Ashara was probably out of the question. With their duties to the Inquisition, the war raging around them, it was out of the question. He could love her, pine for her, worship her from afar like a knight with his lady…

But they were friends, confidantes. And that was more precious than some exalted virgin queen on a pedestal. 

He was able to pull himself out of his bed now, disentangle his racked body from the sweat-soaked sheets. He broke the layer of ice that had formed in the water jug and washed his face. The chill was welcome; the fever of lyrium withdrawal was real enough even without the addition of emotional torment. He pushed his hair back into order and strapped himself into his armor. 

He reached for the hook where he usually hung his cloak and realized it wasn’t there. Had he left it with Ashara again? He couldn’t remember taking it back from her before he left. Had she still been wearing it when she climbed into her bed? Had she slept in it again?

Shit. She would have to cross the entire keep to bring it back to him. And he couldn’t go to her private room now. Everyone would see, and it would be inappropriate.

Maybe she’d managed to wake up early and sneak it back to him like she had that morning in Haven. 

He made his way gingerly down the ladder from his loft to his office, hoping.

But no. His office was exactly how he’d left it. 

Shit.

His office door opened. He spun around and saw her. She stood outlined against the late morning light in the doorway. She was wrapped in his cloak.

As she stepped into the room, he could see she’d just woken up. Her hair was a mess, her eyes red-rimmed and heavy-lidded. A drawn look made her hangover obvious.

He couldn’t help his smile.

“Long night, Inquisitor?”

“Oh, gods, Cullen…” She stumbled further into the office and slumped into an oversized chair. “What the Fade did I do last night?”

_She doesn't remember?_ His heart sank.

“I mean, I know what I _did_ last night—and, um, sorry, by the way—but, oh Maker, why? Varric warned me about drinking with Hawke…”

He laughed gently and took a few steps toward her. “I believe we’ve all been there. And no need to apologize. You are a delightful drunk. If a little clumsy.”

She pulled the cloak over her face, hiding a blush. “Can we pretend that didn’t happen? The stumbly, emotional parts, I mean?” The way the fur mantle muffled her voice made her moaning even cuter.

“Though—“ She emerged from the cloak cocoon. “Some parts of last night I don’t think I’ll ever want to forget.” She bit her lip and lowered her eyes bashfully.

He didn’t know how to respond, a pattern that was developing between them. 

“I, um…” She cleared her throat. “I should get going. Cassandra is going to be livid with me for missing training this morning, and I’m pretty sure I was supposed to get talked at by Solas about some something-or-other about Maker-knows-what… Thanks again for the cloak.”

She rose, leaving the cloak on the chair, and left.

He stood there, a few feet from where she’d been sitting.

She was making it hard for him to keep his thoughts of her simply platonic. 

*****

“Why don’t you just tell her? It’s not like she hasn’t already made her own intentions perfectly clear.” Dorian plucked one of Cullen’s pawns from the board. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like she’s going to kick you out of the Inquisition. Even if she wasn’t already smitten with your golden curls and that delicious scar—you’ll have to tell me how you got that sometime, by the way—she quite admires your military aptitude.”

Cullen missed the quiet of their previous games. 

“Can we drop this, please?”

“In a word, my dear Commander: no. She’ll be back from Crestwood any moment now, and you’ve been mooning over her since she left. And I know for a fact that she’s more than a little interested.” He groaned as Cullen maneuvered out of his intended set-up. 

“And just how can you know that?”

“She told me.”

_Oh. Well. In that case…_

“She thinks you’re ‘adorable’ and brilliant and kind, and it would be rather nauseating if I didn’t like her so much and she wasn’t right. It’s quite sweet, really. Like some fairy tale from Orlais: the highborn Inquisitor falling in love with her commoner knight—no offense intended, of course.”

“None taken,” he growled in response. “But can we please move on? I hear the shipment of books our people located at the College of Enchanters arrived. Anything of interest?”

“Nice try, Commander, but you’re not getting out of this so easily.” The mage repositioned a rook to take another route around Cullen’s defenses. “Besides, it would be good for both of you. Sex can be remarkably restorative.”

Cullen choked on his wine. 

“Oh, now, now, Chantry boy. We’re all adults here. Let’s not go getting all flustered at the mention of sex—“

“She’s the Inquisitor, man! How can you—“

“She’s a woman. A human being. We all do it. And you can’t tell me you’re a virgin. Please tell me you’re not—“

“No! I’ve been with women!”

“Just women? Shame… If Ashara really isn’t your type, then allow me to volunteer.”

Cullen buried his head in his hands.

“Please, Dorian, can we please talk of something else. I will beg you if need be.”

“Now that’s something I might like to see… But very well. Just so long as we don’t have to speak about anything too serious. I’m afraid I’m just not up to it today, what with the news in Ashara’s last letter. Dreadful business, Crestwood.”

The mayor had actually drowned the village. Burst the dam, blamed it on the darkspawn. Whether to contain the Blight or not, such an act was ghastly. Ashara’s letter was haunting. She had left for Skyhold as soon as she found out, leaving a bandit-occupied fortress and locating Hawke’s friend for another time. He knew she would be a mess when she got back. She would need someone to talk to.

“Ah, but you’re thinking of our fair-haired warrior again now, aren’t you?”

He sighed. Why try to deny it at this point? “Yes.”

Dorian just smiled at him, sitting back in his chair.

“She… is truly…” He sighed. “But it doesn’t matter. It cannot be.”

“Fasta vass, Cullen! You are hopeless.”

“Don’t I know,” he grumbled, moving a piece. “Your turn.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Gloat all you like, I have this one.” If there was one thing he could be utterly sure of, it was the outcome of this game.

“Sassing me, Commander? I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Why do I even—“ The sound of approaching footsteps distracted him. He looked up— “Inquisitor!”

He made to stand from his chair, dropping his knight. She must have just returned.

“Leaving, are you? Does this mean I win?”

Dorian’s double meaning wasn’t lost on him. He quickly took his seat again and squared off.

“Are you two playing nice?” she kidded, crossing her arms and giving them a mock stern glare.

“I’m _always_ nice,” Dorian drawled, smirking at Cullen. “Now. You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory. You’ll feel much better.” 

He placed his queen exactly where Cullen wanted him too.

“Really. Because I just won.” He moved his knight directly before the king. “And I feel fine.” He stretched and grinned. 

“Don’t get smug. There will be no living with you.” He winked at Cullen as he rose to leave.

“I should return to my duties as well.” 

She was clearly amused. 

“Unless you would care for a game…”

“Prepare the board, Commander!” 

“As a child, I played this with my sister,” he offered. “She would get this stuck-up grin when she won, which was all the time. My brother and I practiced together for weeks. Oh, the look on her face the day I finally won…”

It was one of his few fond memories, his childhood on the farm. He wanted to offer her something of himself, something light and happy rather than the angst they’d shared so far.

“Between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years.” He sat back into the chair, his mind wandering off to the fields of Ferelden. “I wonder if she still plays…”

“You have siblings?”

“Two sisters and a brother.”

“Where are they now?” 

“They moved to South Reach after the Blight. I do not write to them as often as I should.” Mia had just chewed him out in another letter.

“I haven’t gotten a letter from anyone in my family in a while, either. Except those obnoxious demands. Sorry about that. Though I wish I could have been there when your men marched through Albrecht’s lands…” She chortled.

“All in the name of duty, Inquisitor. And anything to make you happy.”

She blushed prettily and looked down to move a piece.

He met her move with a strategic block intended to force her into a mistake, which she made as she told him about some of the more ridiculous things she’d seen and heard from her distant relations in the Marches.

She saw her folly as soon as she plucked his pawn from the board. 

“Damnit! I guess a good commander knows when it’s best to sacrifice a soldier for the larger strategy, yes?”

Her joke hit too close to home.

“Shit. Cullen. I—“

“Inquisitor…”

“I didn’t mean to—Fuck. Cullen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject. You—“

“I promise you… I’ll never let anything like that—“

“Cullen, no. You—“

“If you hadn’t made it…”

“I made that decision myself. Entirely on my own. I will _not_ let you blame yourself for it.” She leaned forward and gripped his hand. Her eyes held his, begging him to forgive her misspoken words.

They sat like that for a few long moments, her eyes growing wet as she silently pled his forgiveness.

“I didn’t mean to bring up such a painful memory, Cullen. I hope you know that… I chose to stay behind. And you… saved me. As much as that night haunts me, the memory of you finding me…” Her voice caught in her throat.

He squeezed her hand back. “Let’s talk of something more pleasant?”

She smiled gratefully. “I like that idea. Tell me more about your childhood?”

They played on, taking plenty of time between moves, as he told her about chasing his little sister with worms, the creative punishments his mother concocted when he and Bran would track half a field worth of mud into the house. The way Ashara hung on his words and dissolved into laughter at his descriptions of Mia’s early attempts at teaching him to braid her hair, warmed him to the tips of his fingers. His afternoons of chess with Dorian had been a nice diversion, but this was something more.

The sun had dipped behind the garden walls.

“This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition, or… related matters. To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

“We should spend more time together,” she responded. “More time when I’m not drinking too much and being maudlin, at least.” She looked directly into his eyes, a question there.

He was not expecting it.

“I… would… like that.” His hopefulness was audible.

“Me too.” 

_She actually said that._

“You said that…”

Did he just say that out loud?

Their eyes met. They both blushed and glanced away.

“We should, um… finish our game, right? My turn?” 

He was thoroughly distracted by her statement, though he knew she’d been nudging him with her interest for months. There was something different about it, now, after the night after the tavern and the following morning. Maybe there was hope… Was he supposed to take the next step?

Her next move was a rookie mistake, too obvious considering how well she’d been playing up until then. She wasn’t paying attention to the board at all at this point.

They finished their game in weighty silence.

“…And this one’s mine,” he declared as he captured her king. 

“It seems luck favored you today.” She smiled knowingly.

“So it has…” He returned her smile, letting his longing show in his eyes.

He’d never felt so lucky.


	13. Part I. Chapter 13.

She looked every inch the Inquisitor. Her back straight, jaw set, she sat with authority in the Inquisitor’s throne. 

The light sparkling through the stained glass windows lent an incongruous sense of joy and beauty to the scene.

The now former mayor of Crestwood stood before her. The troops had wasted no time bringing him to Skyhold after they tracked him down. His own words damned him. There was no fact-finding to this trial, no determination of culpability. This man had murdered the people who had elected him to protect them, run for years, and then admitted his crime when her attempts to end the town’s curse unveiled his deeds. Blighted or not, many had died. They would never even know how many.

“The mayor claims it was to spare the rest of Crestwood, but we only have his word.”

The man’s head hung low as he slumped toward his judgment. Ashara seemed no less eager to proceed. Her first time presiding over court had seemed far easier for her, and the second was… odd. And that crime (and her judgment) had been rather... amusing. Though the goat probably hadn’t been laughing. 

She was fair in her role as Inquisitor. “If the man has anything to say in his defense, let him speak.”

“There’s no cure for the Blight!” he cried. “But I couldn’t convince anyone to leave a sick child or husband behind.”

“So you herded the infected into one place and flooded Old Crestwood? Were there no innocents caught in the waters?” Josephine blurted out, incredulous.

He was silent, taken aback, for a moment before the defensiveness returned. “Nearly everyone in the village had the blight! I swear it! Have mercy. I couldn’t tell the survivors I’d drowned their own families to save them. I—I couldn’t!”

Cullen could see her jaw clenching and unclenching. Her eyes were narrowed, foggy, and her brow furrowed deeply. “The Inquisition stands for all Thedas,” she finally spoke. “I cannot hold myself or this organization above the individual nations. It is not my place to apply their laws and judge their criminals. You committed murder on Ferelden soil. Let them deal with your punishment.

“Send him to Denerim,” she directed Josephine. “Let him spend his life behind their bars.”

The broken old man stumbled back. “In prison? Maker, I should have drowned with them.”

 _Perhaps a more appropriate, if colder, punishment for his sins_ , Cullen thought, watching the guards lead Mayor Dedrick away. Though he could not fault her reasoning. While some in the main hall clearly disagreed with her, lusting instead to see a swift and bloody end to the man, her call had been politically astute. The Inquisition would not stand long, nor gain any diplomatic friends, meddling in the domestic political affairs of nations. They were not an empire, but an international force for peace and justice. Their role was stopping Corypheus and the war.

Josephine continued to stand proudly at the Inquisitor’s side as the bystanders slowly filed from the hall. Cullen held his own position until the last ununiformed person left.

“A wise decision, Inquisitor,” Josephine stated. “King Alistair may not be happy that he will be asked to judge such a vile crime, but the people of Ferelden will appreciate your discretion in recognizing the nation’s authority. They are understandably… leery of any power that might seek to usurp their autonomy. Particularly one based, as we are, in Orlais.”

Cullen agreed. “Fereldans are a proud people, Your Worship. They will see this as an act of respect. We are likely to see more recruits thanks to your action.”

She nodded distractedly. “Considering King Alistair’s reaction to my recruitment of the mages as allies after what happened in Redcliffe, I thought it might be best to show some deference. And I fear what the Inquisition could become if we allow ourselves to exercise power beyond our immediate role. Dedrick’s crime was horrifying but not our jurisdiction…”

She pushed up out of the massive chair and took a few steps down from the dais. 

“War room now?” she sighed.

“If you don’t mind, Inquisitor.” Josephine motioned toward the door. “We’ve received a few missives I believe we should review at your nearest convenience. And we should discuss the upcoming ball at the Winter Palace. We’re not just going to stop an assassination, but to represent the Inquisition to the most powerful houses of Orlais, and all of Thedas.”

“Such the diplomat, Josie.” Ashara smiled. “You don’t need to finesse me. We’re friends. Or at least I hope we are. And I want a say in what I’m wearing to that ball. I might have to fight in it, and I won’t have Leliana putting me in delicate slippers too dainty to kick arse in!”

There was an evident warmth between the two women. He knew they spoke often, sharing stories of their youths, comparing notes on political arrangements, lamenting Skyhold’s lack of complicated-sounding candies from Antiva. He was glad to see she had the relationship, though he found himself a bit jealous, just as he did with the easy laughter Dorian evoked from her. He wanted their own relationship to have more of that mutuality and humor, though he would hardly sacrifice any of what they had built so far in trade. Rather, he wanted to add to their interactions, become more.

“And where is your mind wandering off to, Commander? That’s a rather wistful smile for a man planning troop movements, no? Other things on your mind? Maybe you have opinions on what the Inquisitor should wear to the Winter Palace?”

Leliana announced her arrival with the playful jab.

“What? Are you implying something?”

“Merely that you might want to have a say in the Inquisitor’s attire. Or perhaps you have some useful insight into Orlesian politics? You seem quite distracted.”

“I—it’s nothing relevant. Merely calculating the proper calibration of the trebuchets.”

The former bard smirked. “Of course, Commander. One simply cannot think of trebuchets too often. They’re such pretty machines. And would look most lovely draped in Orlesian silks, yes?”

She had recently taken to prodding him about the time he spent alone with the Inquisitor, trying to embarrass him in front of their superior. She was usually successful.

Ashara gave them an amused look. “Are you sure you two aren’t actually siblings? The teasing!”

His blush deepened. “I assure you, Inquisitor, I do nothing to encourage this unprofessional behavior. I have no intention to be inappropriate.”

The three women burst into giggles.

“Oh, Maker, Cullen. Always so serious! I like that you all bicker and play like a family. It feels comfortable. Behind these doors, when it’s just us, I’d prefer everyone to be relaxed. Speak your minds. Act like people rather than capital-lettered titles.”

He sighed. “Can we get to work already? I’m concerned about these reports from Nevarra.”

Josephine pursed her lips. “You’re right to be concerned. I think there may be need to send a delegation soon. I might have to go myself if things are as heated as they seem.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon bent over the maps and reports, discussing the various rifts—political and magical—that they were asked to seal.

As they exchanged their usual volley of opinions and queries, he realized how true Ashara’s observation was. Leliana and Josephine had become like sisters to him. The respect he felt for their intelligence and mastery of their arts had begun to evolve into a deeper appreciation for their personalities and presence. Family was an accurate analogy. The teasing was annoying but affectionate.

He looked up. His friends were huddled around a particularly ridiculous letter from some self-scandalized Orlesian duke. They’d already decided his cause was not worth the Inquisition’s time, but were giggling and nudging each other over some of the more florid language om the letter, reading samples of the man’s pleadings aloud in exaggerated accents. 

The Inquisition was becoming his home. It was a welcoming feeling, if somewhat alien. He’d felt something like this with his Templar brethren in Kinloch before the circle fell, but hadn’t really felt this comfort since he was a boy in Honnleath.

Ashara glanced up from the letter and caught his eye. She returned his smile, her eyes warm and beautiful. 

He had to look away before she could see his smile grow.

*****

She showed up in his office late that evening, armed with a tray of food and two large wooden steins.

“Commander.”

He startled and turned his attentions from the scout report he’d been staring at for the last ten minutes.

“Inquisitor!” He leapt from his chair, upsetting a stack of reports and sending them fluttering to the floor around his desk.

Ashara rolled her eyes. “Cullen. Relax.”

She crossed the room and placed her load on his desk before kneeling down to help him gather up the papers. She leafed through a few, taking in their contents quickly.

“Is this really what kept you from your dinner, Cullen? Reports of nothing happening in… anywhere?”

“I… No. Yes. It’s… My filing system. That was the ‘all-clear’ stack. Reports of no activity. They were stacked by date and location. It’s a chronological record so we can trace back records in a region to establish a timeline of…”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to keep them together by region rather than activity?”

He shook his head. “This way I can keep the similar activity reports in one place, establish patterns more easily if they’re together like this. I’ve indexed each report accordingly so that I can cross reference back to the various categories. See the colored tabs? Each color represents a category, which tells me there’s a break in the trend in the region and what kind of change was reported. Then I can easily go back to the appropriate file and compare. See, I’ve marked this report from the Crossroads on the third of Harvestmere with a green tab, which means we received a report of potential rift activity. So then I can look to the rift file…” He picked up another stack of papers and showed her, flipped through to the relevant report. “Which is right next to similar reports for the area near Dennet’s farm and Hafter’s Woods. This way I can best decide our response and prioritize.”

She was staring at him with a crooked grin.

“The master at work, huh? Please tell me you didn’t miss a meal because you were organizing your files from over five months ago.”

“I… I guess I did. I just want to find any patterns, be prepared for the next attack.”

“I must say I’m impressed, Commander. But I suppose Cassandra wouldn’t have recruited someone less skilled for your position. And I’m glad I’ve got you looking out for the Inquisition.”

“And you,” he said before he could stop it.

Her eyes grew sad and she reached out to place a hand on his vambrace. “You still blame yourself for Haven?”

There was no need to answer. She could probably see it on his face.

“Cullen…”

Neither said anything for a moment. He sighed.

“Ashara, I promised you nothing like that will ever happen again, and I meant it. If I can prevent another assault… Corypheus will not catch us off-guard again if I can help it. I will not send you off into any situation I am not completely certain you—we—can handle.”

He finally met her eyes with earnestness. Her face was drawn, as though she were fighting back tears.

“Enough of this, then. Let’s try to relax. It’s important to maintaining mental awareness. Also eating. Sit. Eat.”

She shoved him back into the chair and pushed the tray of food in front of him.

“I will not have my commander faltering because he doesn’t eat enough. I don’t want you wasting away. That’s a lot of muscle to maintain.”

“Um… I…”

“Eat! Ignore my awkward comment and just eat. I can assure you it’s not ram tonight. Still not sure what it is exactly—maybe venison?—but it does taste good. The kitchen has been taking advantage of the additional resources we’re getting from the Orlesian and Antivan donors. Maybe by Wintersend we’ll have something like a normal non-rations diet here in Skyhold. I’ve even heard talk of vegetables that aren’t roots and even fruit from the gardens here. You’re going to have a hard time getting me to leave the keep if that’s the case.” 

He tasted the stew. He was a fan of Fereldan cuisine—everything thrown into one pot and cooked until it was all a uniform gray-brown color—and his life with the Templars had trained him not to mind having the same thing every night. But this was good. Not too pretentious, and definitely a step up from what they’d been eating for the past few months.

“I’ve heard you miss a lot of meals when I’m not around. Are you okay? With the withdrawal…”

He swallowed and cut her off.

“It’s nothing to worry about. I simply get too busy and forget to eat. I’m fine,” he assured her, though he kept his left hand firmly pressed to the desk to hide the tremor.

“I find it hard that a man of your… stature forgets to eat. There’s no way you’d be as tall and, um, well, _big_ as you are if you made a habit of missing meals. I would suspect you as more apt to eat _extra_ , if anything,” she teased.

“It’s nothing, Inquisitor, really. It’s just the amount of work lately. We have dozens of new recruits just since you returned from Crestwood, along with significant donations we’ve been using to outfit those recruits. Getting everyone assigned, and…”

“Cullen. That’s a piss-poor excuse, and you know it. Please, for my sanity’s sake, promise me you’ll try to eat. I know the withdrawal can affect your appetite and sleep patterns, and I also know that not sleeping and eating will wear you down and make the withdrawal harder. And increase your stress. Which will also make the withdrawal harder. Don’t make this any harder on yourself than it need be. Please? For my sake?”

He looked away, pinched the bridge of his nose and ran his hand down his face before responding.

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Ha! Fat chance of that happening. You’re the commander of my army. You saved my life at least once. And, well, fuck it, Cullen. I care about you. I don’t want anything happening to you, especially not when I’m not here to help—which is more often than not. So, like it or not, I’m going to be worried about you not taking care of yourself. If you don’t want me to worry about you, start taking better care of yourself!”

He only half-heard the second half of what she said. She cared about him. No matter how many times she implied it, actually hearing the words was more powerful than he could have expected.

“Cullen? Are you okay?”

He must have been making a stupid face.

“What? Yes, yes. I’m fine. I… you…”

“Just please finish your meal?”

“Oh. Um. Of course.”

He didn’t taste the food, as much as he’d savored the improved flavor only moments before. His mind was elsewhere.

“Thank you.” She drank from one of the steins. “I even had some Fereldan-style sour ale brought in. Gatsi looked at me like a mad woman, but I hear it’s your favorite, so—“ She shoved the other stein toward him, and lifted hers. “—To you, Commander Cullen. As a thank you for your hard work, and for being a good friend.”

He returned her toast and drank. It was delicious. How did she know it was his favorite?

“A lot of people respect you, you know that? I think they’d even like you if you’d let them.” 

He (once again) wasn’t sure how to respond.

“But I already do like you, and was hoping you had some time to talk tonight. You weren’t at dinner, so I decided to feed you and get you alone at the same time. Do you have the time? To talk, I mean.”

He stopped chewing. She must have noticed the odd way he’d been acting around her—the moony expressions and stuttering. Was she going to ask him to stop, leave their relationship safely platonic? Or maybe she was going to ask to move them along to something different…

“Of course,” he answered slowly.

“Good, I…” She fell quiet. “I wanted to… Cullen, why did you agree to make me Inquisitor?”

Not at all what he’d expected, and not something he was prepared to answer. But it was better than some of her early lines of questioning.

She rushed to follow up. “You and Cassandra know me pretty well. And you’d seen the, what—less noble? Immature? Emotional drunk?—side of me before the four of you made that decision. And our conversations… I… I guess it was unexpected. To say the least…”

“Are you upset with me?”

“What? No! Why would I be upset?”

“You… You had told me that you just wanted to be you, without expectations. I almost told the others to consider that, but didn’t want to betray your confidence. But in the end, Ashara, you… I believe it was the right thing to do.”

She stared at him. Took a drink. Looked into the stein.

“Thank you, Cullen. For all of that…”

She sat the stein aside and shifted her weight onto the desk so that she was sitting more comfortably, facing him more fully.

“It’s just that… Well… I’m a mess of a human being. I can be so… irrational. And I get so nervous, especially around you sometimes, and I act like a total lunatic, saying the most ridiculous things. My temper can be so short. And I cry. A lot sometimes. And I really have no idea what I’m doing most of the time. I’m just making it all up as I go. I’m no one special, really. Just… Just another screw-up trying to set things right even while I get other things wrong.”

It sounded so familiar. To hear the same insecurities and fears voiced by the bravest person he’d ever met… An odd comfort, but nonetheless.

“Ashara, that’s… all of us.”

She looked up again.

“You have set right what no one else could, and without any hesitation. You had no duty to stay, even after you closed the Breach, yet you did. Then you stood for us all at the risk of...”

He needn’t finish that thought. 

“Whatever shortcomings you think you have, they are no worse than those we all share. But you try. And you are not afraid to make decisions. You are fair, honest, and kind. You listen to others and respect those who differ from you. You show thought in your decisions, and don’t seek personal glory at the expense of the cause. That is leadership. That is why we chose you. I have seen what bad leadership looks like, and you are the opposite. We are proud to have you as our Inquisitor.”

She blushed, tears at the corners of her eyes.

“Is that really what you think?”

He ached to tell her the rest of what he thought of her.

“May I ask _you_ something, Ashara?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you say yes?”

She thought a moment.

“Because it is a chance to try to make myself worthy of the honor. To be what I should be. To remake myself as I hope to. And to lend that person to a worthy cause.”

“A fine reason.” 

She accepted his assurance with a slight smile.

“Thank you, Cullen.” Her voice was heavy with something he’d heard before but wasn’t sure yet what to call. “Really. You’ve been a wonderful comfort and friend these past months. I hope I return to you at least as much as you’ve given me. We ask so much of you, and you keep giving every ounce of your energy even while you go through… If you… You should feel free to take some time for yourself when… if…” She sighed. “Don’t sacrifice your wellbeing. Please? You can rely on Cassandra and Rylen and Bull if things ever get…”

She was struggling with her thoughts, was clearly not saying everything she was thinking. 

“Rest assured, Inquisitor, I can handle this. I won’t let the Inquisition suffer for my own pursuits.”

“Cullen, I’m not talking about the Inquisition. Fuck the Inquisition.” She moved closer to him, just slightly, reaching for his hand. “I don’t want _you_ —“ 

Her sentiment was cut off by Josephine’s messenger entering the office. “Commander— Oh! Inquisitor!” She bowed, blushing powerfully. “I did not know you were here. Please, forgive my intrusion.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Did you two need to be…” Ashara stood and made to leave.

“Oh, no, Inquisitor! Please. I merely wanted to bring this to the Commander from Ambassador Montilyet—“ She held out a small package which Cullen accepted, confused, and scurried from the office, bowing her head to Ashara.

“Is she always so nervous?” She settled back against the desk, gazing at the closed door.

“Not at all.” He hated to admit it, but: “Your presence has an effect on people, Inquisitor.”

She sighed. “Exactly what I was fearing. And why I need you to call me Ashara. Please?”

“Of course.”

Had he been using her title this whole time?

“Thanks.” She smiled weakly. “I’d like to think I’m more than just that title to you anyway.”

_You are. More than you know…_

“So what’s in the package from Josie?”

“Hm? Oh! I… I don’t know…” He furrowed his brow. What could Josephine possibly be sending him? Had one of his requisitions accidentally gone to her? Not a mistake Quartermaster Morris would usually make, all of his greenness aside, and the package was smaller than anything he would have requested.

“A surprise? How very like the Ambassador. And something you’re not used to, hm?”

“No, I… I generally don’t like surprises…”

He pulled off the notecard attached to the package and read it.

“You’re… blushing, Commander! I think I’m jealous! Is our Ambassador sending you excerpts from the _Randy Dowager_?”

“What? No! No, nothing like that. It’s… A birthday gift.”

“It’s your birthday! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“My birthday was…” The day after Haven. It had been his birthday for only a few moments when he’d found her, barely alive, in the snow. “…more than two months ago, but Josephine just found out. She reprimanded me for ‘hiding’ it from her.” He indicated the note. “I have no idea how she found out…”

“I should reprimand you too! I wish you’d told me. I would have gotten you a gift!” 

“You did.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but now that it was out… “Early Firstfall. You’d closed the Breach the day before. You’d saved us and then… It was after midnight when you returned to us.”

“Cullen…” Her eyes sparkled in the dim light of his office.

He cleared his throat loudly. “I apologize, Inquis—Ashara. I didn’t mean to imply any—“

“So what did our Ambassador send you, anyway?” She cut him off and nudged the package toward him. “She’s good at presents.”

Grateful for the interruption before he had to try to lie about the meaning that moment had taken on, he lifted the lid from the box and blinked, startled. He knew Josephine was good at her job, but…

“Candy?”

Fereldan toffee. His favorite since he was a boy.

He laughed, a bit embarrassed. “I suppose it is. It’s a traditional Fereldan treat. My mom used to make it around Satinalia every year…”

“That’s so sweet of Josie. Um. No pun intended. It seems like we’re all eager to bring a bit of home to our illustrious Commander today!”

He smiled broadly. There was no need to bring home to him. He was there.


	14. Part I. Chapter 14.

He squirmed uncomfortably. It was bad enough she wouldn’t let him wear his armor, even though they knew there might be a fight. The dress jacket Josephine had chosen for him was a bit tight in the shoulders, and the pants were far too snug.

“The political situation in Halamshiral hangs by a thread,” Josephine coached the Inquisitor. “The Empress fears our presence could sever it. The Grand Duke is only too happy to have us at the ball as his guests, so our invitation comes from him. Whether we act as his allies or upset the balance of power, he gains an opportunity, if not a clear advantage.”

He hung back and let the honor guard, personally selected from his strongest soldiers, precede her through the gate. He was loath to send her into this vipers’ nest. He was only passingly familiar with the political warfare the Orlesians called The Game, knowing only enough to recognize that she was in perhaps more danger here than she’d been in in Redcliffe. And it would be harder to see coming. He would have to trust to Leliana and Josephine to keep an eye on the more subtle social maneuvers at the ball. He would stand guard in the ballroom, hoping he wouldn’t be needed. 

Having Cole around, with his bizarre mind-reading ability, might be helpful, if the young man didn’t get too confused by the maze of veils and misdirection the Orlesians so adeptly weaved. Sera’s underground “Red Jenny” spy network was supposed to provide information and assistance navigating the palace and its residents as well. But it was Vivienne he was most relying on—both her intimidating social standing as well as her first-class barrier spells might prove necessary tonight.

He felt useless, and hated every minute of it.

The Grand Duke was obsequious and had all the charisma of a snake. He disliked the man immediately, regardless of his affiliation with the Chevaliers. Even Cullen could tell that Gaspard had ulterior motives in inviting Inquisitor Trevelyan as his guest to the Winter Palace. 

She kept Gaspard at arm’s length with playful jests and pointed remarks, a charming smile always at hand. He felt a twinge of jealousy as she allowed Gaspard to lead her into the palace. He knew it was for sake of the Game and the defeat of Corypheus, but still, it was an honor he would never share, and that made him irrationally sad. It's not like balls and formal affairs were remotely close to his interests, but if Ashara...

_Not now, Rutherford._

Dozens of eyes followed Ashara’s every step. She smiled and joked. If she was nervous, she gave no sign. 

He stood at attention as their party was announced to the crowd of preening nobles, almost choking as Sera was announced by the ridiculous _nom-de-guerre_ she’d given herself for this purpose. A man of his age and position shouldn’t find such sophomoric pranks amusing, but he couldn’t help but smile. These asses set his teeth on edge.

The evening dragged after that. He watched her dip and out of the ballroom, flirting expertly with the other guests between whispered conversations with Leliana. While she was investigating the Winter Palace, searching for clues into the planned assassination of the Empress, he was left waiting for her signal to act.

He was a sitting duck.

Within moments of assuming a strategic post in a back corner of the upper ballroom—giving himself a clear view of the party—he found himself surrounded by a flock of plumed young women and a handful of peacocking men. 

“Can I get you a drink, Commander Cullen?” 

“No, thank you.”

The corseted and masked woman didn’t leave.

“Do you enjoy music, Commander?”

“Everyone enjoys music, Madam.”

Another woman spoke up. “Smile, Commander. You’re so handsome when you smile.”

“He’s just as handsome when he doesn’t,” came the retort from a mustachioed mask.

_Maker’s breath_. Would he have to endure this all night while the Inquisitor flitted through the room like a mystery-solving butterfly? She looked nice, if a little out of place, in the fitted military uniform, but it provided her no armor. He had grown quite confident in her melee skills—Leliana’s recommendation that they bring in outside trainers did not sit well with him—but anyone bold enough to infiltrate the peace talks to assassinate the Empress was likely to put up a fight. What if she was caught off guard, still in her dress uniform—

“Did you just grab my bottom?!”

The masked nobles tittered.

“I am a weak man,” Mustache Mask shrugged as he finally gave up his quarry, only to be replaced by a couple in matching masks.

“I would love to hear about your time in Kirkwall, Commander.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

A nightmare of the same scale as this evening…

“Are you married, Commander?”

Ashara returned to the ballroom, flushed and lovely. His heart made the association—marriage, Ashara…

“I am… married to my work,” he sighed.

She was approaching.

“Inquisitor! Did you need something?” _Please need me to do something. Get me out of here._ “The sooner we track down this infiltrator, the better.”

No need to pretend around these stuffed shirts that’s what they were here to do. And at this point, the headache he was developing was preferable to the company. Maybe this would scare them off?

She smirked, as though she understood his current situation. “Just checking in. Do you have any advice?”

“Orlesian social events don’t fall within my area of expertise,” he snarled. “There are few here we can trust. Be careful.”

A few golden corkscrews were springing from her otherwise carefully plaited hair. Just like it did when they’d been sparring. 

_Please be careful._

“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not yet. It would be easier if people would stop talking to me.”

She grimaced.

“Other people. Not you,” he said gently. This couldn’t be easy on her either. The amount of scrutiny she faced this evening on top of everything else she had to wrestle with had to be suffocating. He gave her what he hoped was a kind and reassuring smile.

She handed him a wooden statuette of a hallah without explanation. “We’ll talk later."

“I await your signal.” He hoped it sounded like he was confident in her, maybe a little flirtatious too. Foolish, but…

She melted seamlessly back into the party.

_What is the hallah about?_ That bit made no sense. He set it on the table beside him.

“You have such beautiful hair, Commander.”

He had never been complimented so much in his life.

“Thank you.”

Ashara had taken to the dance floor with Grand Dutchess Florianne. The Duchess was dressed like a moth. Fitting for a woman who had spent her life flitting around the flame of her brother’s power.

The two moved beautifully. Ashara wasn’t hiding her noble roots. Clearly she’d taken dancing lessons. She led the other woman gracefully around the room in a series of intricate, looping steps and spins.

“You must dance with me, Commander! You cannot stand about all evening.”

“I’m afraid not, thank you.” 

“Commander, has anyone ever told you that you have the most remarkable eyes?”

“Several times this evening, in fact.”

He would have actually preferred a battle at this point.

As the song came to an end, the room erupted in applause for the Inquisitor and the Duchess’s flawless performance.

Josephine was at her side as soon as she returned to the gallery, Leliana not far behind. She made eye contact with him from across the room and he rushed toward them immediately, grateful for the reprieve. 

“Were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?” Leliana questioned, aghast.

“More importantly, what happened in the servant’s quarters? I heard there was fighting,” he ventured, hoping the whispered rumors he'd just overheard weren't true.

“I hope you have good news,” Josephine added anxiously. “It appears the peace talks are crumbling.

“The Grand Duchess told me there’s proof Gaspard is in league with Tevinter…” She didn’t seem to completely believe the source.

“She offered up her own brother?” Leliana exclaimed. “She’s more cutthroat than I realized.”

“Then the attack on the Empress will happen tonight,” he concluded.

“Warning Celene is pointless,” Josephine stated. “She needs these talks to succeed, and to flee would be to admit defeat.”

“Then perhaps we should let her die.”

The Inquisitor visibly startled. “I thought we were here to stop the assassination!”

“Listen to me carefully, Inquisitor.” Leliana was, after all, a master of the Game. “What Corypheus wants is chaos. Even with Celene alive, that could still happen. To foil his plan, the Empire must remain strong. This evening, someone must emerge victorious.”

“And it doesn’t have to be Celene… She’s right!” A harsh reality, but true nonetheless. He admired the clarity of the former bard’s analysis.

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting, Leliana?” Josephine gasped. 

“Sometimes the best path is not the easiest one.” She spoke with the painful strength of experience.

“You’re asking me decide what’s best for Orlais.”

“More than that,” he added. “Whoever controls the Imperial Throne will affect all of Thedas.”

She had expressed reluctance to interfere with the internal matter of nations before, but the stakes had been much lower. Whatever they did this evening could have far-reaching ramifications, granting them immense power throughout the land.

“You cannot stop Corypheus without a decision. You must support someone, or all is lost,” Leliana instructed.

“Then we should support Celene, she is the rightful ruler. Why should we say otherwise?” Josephine weighed in.

“Because she led Orlais to this point,” he pointed out wryly. “I say Gaspard, provided his sister is wrong about him,” he added. The man had been a Chevalier and was experienced in political leadership.

Leliana shrugged. “I would suggest Briala. She could bring true peace, not only to the Empire, but also to the elves.” The Empress’s former elven lover…

“This is, however, your decision, Inquisitor. Not ours.” Josephine redirected their attention to the consternated woman who stood before them.

“We will not play kingmakers. We came here to save Celene.”

“Then you must not only save her life, but also her Empire,” Leliana stated.

Josephine continued. “That means giving her a victory over both Gaspard and Briala.”

None of this was alleviating the weight they had piled on the Inquisitor’s shoulders.

“If there truly is proof Gaspard’s in league with Corypheus, that would be a start,” he offered.

“What did Duchess Florianne tell you?” Leliana asked.

“She said Gaspard’s mercenary captain is in the royal wing. That he knows about the assassination.”

“Which could be a trap.” He didn’t like this.

“Or a lead,” Josephine countered. “Either way, you should search the private quarters in that wing for clues.”

“Then get me access,” the Inquisitor ordered her before turning to him. “And in the meantime, get your soldiers into position.”

“At once.” He nodded. “Be careful, Inquisitor.”

They scattered, leaving Ashara to search the palace and hopefully avoid any traps the Orlesian and Venatori conspirators might be leading her into.

Waiting for her return was excruciating. Once he’d sent the order to the honor guard to assume their positions around the ballroom, he was left to return to his post and was immediately surrounded by a gaggle. His bottom was beginning to feel bruised. He finally accepted a drink from a bowing elf to take the edge off the constant barrage and swallowed it in one gulp. Enough to muffle the idiocy but not enough to dull his reflexes or slow his mind.

“Are you married, Commander?”

This again?

“Not yet. But I am… already taken.” He smiled inwardly. It was a nice thought, even if only a fantasy.

“I don’t suppose you’d save a dance for me?”

“No. Thank you—“

It was Ashara, returned from her most recent foray into the palace. Her face fell. “Oh.”

“No! I didn’t mean to—Oh, Maker’s breath. I’ve answered that question so many times I’m turning it down automatically.”

She placed another hallah statuette on the table next to the one he’d left there earlier, then turned a sympathetic smile toward him. She’d probably dealt with this, and worse, growing up the way she did.

He sighed. It would be the perfect place to court her, sweep her off her feet. If not for the assassination plot of a deranged thousand-year-old darkspawn magister. And his own bumbling awkwardness around the woman he fancied.

“I’m not much for dancing,” he offered. “The Templars never attended balls.”

“You’ve attracted quite the following. Who are all these people?”

“I don’t know, but they won’t leave me alone,” he complained.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not enjoying the attention, then?” 

“Hardly. Anyway, yours—“

_This is your opportunity, Rutherford. Grab it!_

He cleared his throat. 

“Yours is the only attention worth having.” It came out smoother than he had expected and had exactly the effect he’d hoped.

She blushed and glanced at her feet. 

She was all business again when she looked back up. “I’m close. I want to look into one or two more leads. Be ready. For anything.” She winked as she turned to leave.

 

*****

Orlais was now governed by a tripartite body, which included an elf. 

They put down the Venatori infiltrators in the ballroom easily. He was proud of his soldiers. They had acted quickly and prevented chaos from breaking out.

But none of his men was with her in the courtyard when Duchess Florianne drew her bow on the Inquisitor. He saw only glimpses of the battle, the first time he’d seen her in action. She put his lessons to use, giving orders to her friends as she took Florianne head-on as much as possible. She was becoming an impressive warrior, though her shield work still needed some improvement, and he finally accepted that she would need more specialized training to be at her best.

He was relieved, more so than her other advisors, he thought, when she finally drew her blade across Florianne’s throat.

Her enemy vanquished, she guzzled a potion, crushed the bottle under her boot, and marched determinedly back into the palace. Her political reservations aside, she put Celene, Gaspard, and Briala each in their place, then pulled a pendant from her pocket, sending the Empress and the elf into a tearful embrace.

_…Orlesians…_

He found her on the balcony later, as the sun began to approach the horizon. The Empress’s familiar-looking apostate friend brushed past him, leaving Ashara outside alone.

He glanced around, confirming their privacy, before stepping out onto the balcony himself. He wouldn’t waste the chance after seeing her in danger firsthand.

“There you are. Everyone’s been looking for you.” He leaned against the railing beside her. “Things have calmed down for the moment. Are you alright?”

She stiffened and waved off his concern. “I’m just worn out. Tonight has been… very long.” She slumped back against the railing, hanging her head and frowning.

“For all of us,” he confirmed. “I’m glad it’s over.”

He studied her beautiful face. She was so oppressed by her duty, the world-changing decisions she must make, the lives she must take. It hurt his heart to see her so clearly struggling with her role as the Inquisitor. 

“I know it’s foolish, but I was worried for you tonight.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. He would have taken her in his arms and let her sob her heart out if he could.

She just looked down, shuffling her feet. He wanted to make it better somehow, make her smile. He knew exactly what to do.

“I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask…”

She looked at him in utter bewilderment. He was going to take her by surprise. As close as he’d probably ever get to sweeping her off her feet.

He stepped away, extended his hand, and turned a chivalrous leg. He probably looked ridiculous, like he was imitating a fairy tale prince, but he smiled. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

Please say yes. Please, please say yes.

The frown shattered like a mask as she lit up brighter than any Orlesian façade. “Of course! But I thought you didn’t dance…”

Her hand was so warm and light in his own as he pulled her into position.

“For you? I’ll try.”

His heart sang. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as he led her through what he remembered from waltzing with his sisters. She smiled the whole time, gazing back up at him.

One song ended and another began, a completely different speed and rhythm, but they continued their own dance, moving closer and relaxing their posture into a near embrace.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she breathed after ages of blissful silence.

“Hm?” Was he still alive or had he crossed the Fade?

“You restore my faith in humanity.”

“That’s… more a feat than I’m truly capable, my lady,” he laughed.

“I’m serious.” She edged closer. He could feel her warmth now, smell her perfume. “Just this here, this dance. I… After tonight…” She shook her head. “The world is falling apart. And you… You kept going after Kinloch. After Kirkwall…”

She stepped closer still and they slowed their dance to a subdued swaying.

“Ashara, I am no role model. The man I was…”

She pressed a gloved finger to his lips and stared into his eyes. “Cullen, I don’t care who you were—or who you think you were—in the past. The man you are now—the man I’ve known for the past seven months—the man who saved my life and taught me to fight so I wouldn’t need more saving—that man is the man standing before me now. That’s the man I’m talking about. And you…”

She clammed up, blushing an impressive red.

“Ashara,” he whispered. “You… you think too highly of me.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped, stepping back and bringing their dance to a halt.

He winced.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so loud… But seriously, Cullen. You’re too hard on yourself. You said as much to me just a couple of weeks ago.” 

Her voice dropped, taking on a tender tone. “Be nice to Cullen, Commander. He’s a good man who fights for what he believes in. He’s been through hell but has rebuilt himself even though it meant risking his life to become the man he wanted to be… Plus, he’s really easy on the eyes and makes me feel like the world isn’t all horrible.”

Now he blushed.

“I don’t know what to say, Ashara…”

She smiled and pulled in closer. “Then don’t say anything and just dance with me.”

So he danced. He held her close in the temporary sanctuary and privacy of their balcony and danced.


	15. Part I. Chapter 15.

He nursed his ale, sitting alone in the corner, watching the other members of the Inquisition unwind from their adventure at the Winter Palace and the long ride to the base of the Frostbacks. He was glad to be away from Halamshiral and its inhabitants. How Ashara had managed to patch together that mess…

She glowed in the firelight. She and Cassandra were huddled close together near the mantle, giggling over a book. One of Cassandra’s torrid romances? Did Ashara actually like that kind of thing?

She wore a smile for the first time since they had left the palace and was blushing. A look of amused incredulity played on her face as she said something he couldn’t hear over the tavern’s general roar. Cassandra assumed a defensive pose, her own dusky cheeks pink, and volleyed a response before they both collapsed in what might have been breathless giggles.

It was odd to see the Seeker so… girlish. Seeing Ashara flushed and happy… He wanted to soak it in and figure out how to make her feel like that every day. 

He blushed himself and glared at his drink. What was he doing? One moment, he was terrified of letting himself feel these things, fearing they’d stir the old demons, recall the way Desire had taunted him with the weaker version back in Kinloch. The next, he was self-assured and comfortable around her, flirting like an Antivan assassin looking to pass the time. And then he’d be trapped inside his self-loathing and anger, unable to connect to her or anyone. He could go from bumbling to suave to cold with her in the course of a conversation, and curse himself afterward for both.

A flash of pain creased his forehead, recalling his irritability and mood swings in general of late. The lyrium withdrawal was certainly part of his maddening dance with these emotions. And maybe the best reason he had for not taking those feelings for her to the next step.

But that dance… She’d felt so warm, light, solid in his arms. By the time they’d parted, reminding themselves of their surroundings and the ramifications of being caught together in such an intimate moment, the dance had devolved into nothing more than a swaying embrace. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell her, feel her so close…

“Did the beer steal your purse, Curly?”

What? He looked up, baffled, as Varric and Cole approached the table.

“The beer didn’t take anything. He’s not mad at the beer. He’s not mad at anyone,” the odd young man said. “Warm and soft but so strong. Like summer and something wonderful." He blinked and looked at Varric. "What’s a unicorn?”

Varric laughed. “I’m not going to ask what any of that’s about. Not sure I want to know…” he trailed off.

Cullen felt his face burn, grateful the spirit boy had stopped, and had instead become fixated on the singing of the minstrel at the other end of the room. The image of Ashara’s tattoo came to mind and the blush deepened.

“The kid hit a nerve, huh? He’s good at that.”

Cullen clenched his jaw then gave up the impulse to deny and argue. He just looked away and refused to answer.

“So, Curly, rumor has it you were seen dancing with our Lady Inquisitor at the Winter Palace. I, of course, am inclined not to believe a word of such vile gossip, but it does make for quite the image—the handsome former Templar and the noble-born Inquisitor swept up in the mystery and romance of the Winter Palace, sneaking away from the politics and intrigue to share a private moment.” He paused thoughtfully and took a long draw from his beer as Cullen desperately tried to will the blood from rushing too visibly to his cheeks. “She, exhausted and world-weary after once again setting the world aright; he, bristling at the Orlesian mess and not being able to help her the way he thinks he should, knowing that she alone could smooth his raised hackles… I should use that… The _Randy Dowager_ would eat it up. Remind me to write my publisher when we get back to Skyhold.”

“Ugh. He will do nothing of the sort, dwarf.” Neither of them had noticed Cassandra’s approach. She narrowed her eyes at the flippant storyteller and crossed her arms over her armored chest. No further words were necessary.

“…Speaking of the Inquisitor, I should go check on Lady Ashara. I owe her a round of Diamondback…” Varric wandered off, muttering about serial royalties and shady publishers.

“I think you just saved me from a rather uncomfortable conversation, Lady Cassandra. You have my thanks.”

She snorted unbecomingly, a laugh she seldom shared in public but which he had come to recognize in the months between Kirkwall and the Conclave. “That man has an uncanny ability to bring up the exact wrong thing at precisely the wrong time. He has no sense of decency.” She settled onto the bench across from him. 

“And who would want to read such drabble anyway?” She added, a light blush returning to her cheeks.

He smirked at her. Traveling in such close company as they had, he’d repeatedly caught her huddled over a trashy novel when she thought he wasn’t looking. Only when she’d given him the list of additional books for Ashara’s personal library had she come close to admitting her abysmal taste in literature.

“I think you would,” he teased.

“Not if I knew it was based off my… friends,” she sputtered.

He chuckled. His mind drifted. What would it be like to give Ashara that kind of romance? 

Now he was blushing too, which she either didn’t notice or (more likely) chose to ignore.

“You were seen on the balcony the other night, you know.”

“Cassandra, I promise you everything is above board—“ 

She scoffed, cutting short his apology or excuse or whatever it was going to be.

“Cullen, I’m not here to criticize. I think it’s…” She cleared her throat and looked away for a moment. “I want to encourage you to… to follow your heart.”

He coughed. Did Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, the former Right Hand of the Divine, Hero of Orlais, daughter of dragonslayers, just tell him to “follow his heart”? His mouth must have been hanging open.

She raised a gauntleted hand. “Don’t—“ She sighed. “I’ve told you before. It is obvious that you care for her. And you deserve to be happy. Both of you. You are good for each other. She says you provide her comfort, and she clearly helps your own anxieties.”

They had developed a strong respect for one another while Cassandra was stationed at the Gallows and searching for Hawke as he was pulling Kirkwall back together. After she’d recruited him and they left the Chantry—a devastating decision for them both—they’d travelled together for several months and grown close. But such open conversation still made him a little uncomfortable.

He felt naked.

“I am sorry if I have over-stepped my bounds, Cullen. But you can love her from afar only so long. And do not try to tell me you don’t love her. The way you look at her…” A sad smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “My Galyan looked at me like that… Looking back now, I realize how much time we wasted denying our feelings... _I_ denied _my_ feelings… out of pride and fear. Now that he’s… gone… I am angry that I did so. Please, my friend. Do not waste any more time. Everything is uncertain now, not least of all our survival. Tell her. Let her love you back.”

He thought he saw a tear in the older warrior’s eye as she turned to leave, hiding her face.

He sat still for a moment, letting her words replay in his head. She had been urging him toward Ashara since Haven, but never had she laid so bare her reasons. And they were good reasons. Between the war and the dangers of lyrium withdrawal, who knew how much time he had left?

The tavern was growing too hot, airless, loud. His head was beginning to throb, and his hands were beginning to shake. He needed some air.

 

*****

 

He settled onto a bench near the stables where the Inquisition’s horses were being quartered for the night.

Outside, it was easy to forget they were in Orlais. As close as they were to Ferelden—just on the other side of the mountains--the trees and roads looked the same. 

Ferelden… The home of his boyhood. 

Things in Honnleath had seemed so simple before the Blight had rocked that world and tipped it over. After the darkspawn—and, he later learned, the death of his parents—life went on, if not happily, for a short period of time. And then Uldred and the blood mages at Kinloch. He had wanted to be a knight his whole life, never thinking about why they were needed until that night. The naïve young man he’d been died in that magic cage. The demons twisted his mind, stole his love, and strangled his humanity. 

The things he’d said to Solona when she finally liberated him, the man he became after that…

He was not proud.

Once it became safe to travel again, he’d been sent away from Kinloch. The way the other Templars looked at him, as though he were a thing to be feared, still stung. People had been eager to move on. Others had been even more eager to use what had happened as a way to tighten Chantry control over mages. Those forces had manipulated him, feeding the hatred Uldred and the demons had sown in Cullen’s heart. By the time Meredith got ahold of him, he was already well on his own way to outright bigotry.

The Inquisition was his chance to atone. He would be forever grateful to Cassandra for giving him that chance. He struggled to overcome his fear of mages. The nightmares were still too frequent and too real. He was still suspicious of magic, if not outright distrustful. What was Corypheus, after all, if not a mage?

Those queasy feelings of apprehension were another reminder, alongside the nightmares and withdrawal, of the man he’d allowed himself to become. The withdrawal symptoms felt at times like deserved self-flagellation. But no matter how much he bled himself, he couldn’t stop loathing that man who was still him. 

Yet Ashara had told Cassandra that he brought her comfort. And she continued to show obvious, if occasionally graceless, signs of her desire to take their friendship in another direction.

She was a remarkable woman. Compelled by her own guilt—one she didn’t deserve—she threw herself over and over again into dangers beyond even those he’d faced in Kirkwall or Kinloch. She radiated goodness and allowed herself to be sustenance for the people’s hope even though she didn’t seem to believe any of the rumors about her.

And Cassandra was right that her presence was calming for him. He’d come to accept that, though he still warred with his feelings. He was lucky to have her as a friend, to get to see the goofy, sincere, bruised, vulnerable side of her. Her nervous awkwardness was endearing. 

And, Maker’s breath, she was beautiful.

The way she had smiled at him when he asked her to dance…

He wanted to see her smile like that every second of every day. Her eyes sparkled like the finest diamonds from Orzamaar. Though as a Fereldan he distrusted the open water, he would gladly set sail on the sea of her eyes. What he’d give to free her strawberry curls from their braids and tangle his fingers in that wild mane. To kiss her deeply and melt the stress from her body. 

He was in love with her. 

He knew that. But he wasn’t worthy of her. She couldn’t possibly love him. Ashara was too good for him. She deserved better than a broken ex-Templar with an ugly past. She was…

She was leaning against the wall right next to him.

“Hey, you.”

He jumped at the sound of her soft greeting.

“Inquisitor!” He sprang to attention. “I didn’t see you approaching.”

“At ease, Commander.” She brushed a hand against his right vambrace. “I hope whatever thoughts have you so distracted are pleasant ones at least.”

He should tell her. He wanted to tell her. But his throat constricted when he opened his mouth to speak.

“Are you okay, Cull? You looked a bit ill when you left the tavern.”

_Tell her, Rutherford._

“I’m…” _Madly in love with you._ “…fine. I just…” _Can’t stop thinking about you._ “…needed some air.”

She sank down onto the bench next to him. “I know that feeling… I feel like I’ve barely breathed since the Conclave.”

He offered her a sympathetic smile. “How are you? You have been rather quiet the past few days.”

In truth, she’d been holding herself separate from the rest of their party as they travelled back to Haven. Varric had tried to bring her out of her shell the first night they’d camped near the road, but she’d excused herself and spent the rest of the evening alone in her tent. In the days since then, she spoke only briefly with her companions. She spoke with Cassandra more than anyone else, but even those conversations had been brief. He hated seeing her so withdrawn.

She sighed and slouched over, resting her forearms on her knees and hanging her head. “It never ends, does it? Life will never be normal again. Or, I guess, ‘normal’ will never be normal again.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ball was… I had attended a couple Orlesian gatherings when I was young. Free Marchers aren’t generally held in high esteem among the elites of the Empire—“ She laughed bitterly. “—but when the little burgh of Ostwick was less inconsequential than usual for something or another, we would be invited to a ball or naming for some marquis’s brat. It was usually to try to gain influence with the Chantry through my family’s connections, which my parents often used as a chance to arrange socially and financially beneficial marriages for my sisters.”

She made a disgusted noise not unlike Cassandra’s mantra.

“It never seemed so toxic and vicious as it did this time. That place was an absolute mess. A vipers’ nest. Each titled bastard viler than the last. When it came down to it, they deserve the mess they have on their hands. Florianne was just the most egregious, and the easiest to eliminate without unleashing more chaos.

“Did you know Celene knew Gaspard was planning a coup? She was hoping he’d overplay his hand and fall on his face at the ball. And Briala! She actually had both Gaspard and Celene’s ambassadors murdered and framed the others in order to make things worse between them. And, of course, Gaspard had his chevaliers and the mercenaries there in the palace, ready to storm in for a final victory in the civil war. We knew he was using us for political advantage, but…”

She snapped back upright, smacking her head against the side of the stables. “Ugh! They deserve each other. Though now I’m worried I might have made things worse by forcing the three to play nice.” 

She shook her head, staring up at the stars and sighed heavily. “I just hope I didn’t hurt support for the Inquisition.”

He gazed at her, his distaste for Orlesian politics heightened by what she revealed. No wonder she had been so quiet. That kind of duplicitousness and the potential fallout was a lot to think about, especially with the added variable of Corypheus’s involvement.

“I’d be perfectly happy never again setting foot in the Winter Palace,” he offered. “It wasn’t just the gossip and backstabbing and dangerous plotting—I know what the Game entails. It was the indifference to it all.”

“Exactly!” She shook her head again, though her posture relaxed. 

And then her smile returned with a mischievous spark. “At least there was dancing.”

He chuckled, happy to take the edge off her pain with a little flirtation. “Or an attempt at it anyway.” 

“I thought you did well!” 

“And I’m grateful for your poor taste in dance partners.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “You’re too hard on yourself. You practically swept me off my feet, my knight in shining armor.”

He felt his cheeks grow warm and some of the tension leave his neck and shoulders.

“May I ask you something?” 

“Of course.” 

“I understand there’s a way I could become a Templar—or gain the power at least.”

The blighted specialists. He’d fought with Leliana about including the Templar trainer. He had already more than demonstrated to Ashara the dangers of lyrium addiction. He bit back his anger. 

“Why would you?”

She fidgeted, staring at her hands. “Templars make sacrifices to protect people. I’m willing to do the same.”

“In Haven, you nearly…” His heart wouldn’t bear finishing that sentence. “I know what you are willing to give,” he whispered, unable to keep the angst from his voice.

She didn’t reply immediately but worked her lower lip between her teeth.

“What is it like to have powers? To take lyrium?”

“Strange,” he answered honestly. “But after a while… your abilities become instinct. You wield them as you would a sword. Without thought.” He still caught himself reaching for those abilities at times, usually triggering a withdrawal episode.

“Do you think that’s what it’s like to be a mage?”

“No. Templar abilities are not magic. You draw on the lyrium in your blood and your training, not some innate ability.”

“You’re sure it feels different? How do you know?”

Her questioning was grating on him and he had to fight the irritability. “I just do,” he answered curtly.

She seemed to shrink a little. “I just… I don’t want to feel helpless, and if this could help me fight against the demons… You’ve been through this. I could use your advice.”

She turned wide, pleading eyes upon him. 

“Reconsider. It’s not an easy life, and you needn’t take on more.”

“Cullen.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

The old wall of silence was rebuilding itself between them. They sat stiffly, staring ahead as the bricks fell into place and the muscles in his neck began to knot back up.

He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled roughly. He didn’t want to end their conversation this way. 

“Templars can lose their memories to lyrium. Some call it a gift, to forget the failed harrowings, the demons. Some atrocities haunt me still… But to lose what good I can recall… I nearly—“ He shook his head, forcing away the living nightmare that began to creep up his spine. “It is no gift.”

She turned back to him and her mouth fell open. For a moment she seemed to be struggling to think of the right thing to say. “I could lose my memories?”

“It’s possible. If you take lyrium for the rest of your life... I’ve seen it happen. Mostly with older Templars. They start to forget. Small things at first—a misplaced item, words to a song… More fades away over time.”

Her face was stricken, tears pooling in her eyes.

“Sorry, I… thought you knew.”

“Older Templars… do they ever forget… people? Loved ones?”

Would he forget her? A last cruelty of the Chantry, taking away what little he could have of her after his time with the Templars made him unworthy of more?

“I don’t know… Perhaps…”

“Oh,” she breathed.

The silence returned, though the wall had collapsed. 

After a few moments, she reached out and brushed the back of her hand across the top of his rerebrace. “I… I’m sorry to have brought this up. I shouldn’t have…” She trailed off.

He nodded and reached up to place his hand over hers. “It’s alright. Just, please, do not go down that path, Ashara.”

_It would kill me to see you broken by the lyrium._

She smiled weakly. “You’ve convinced me. I didn’t want to make a choice without considering all the options, and… Well. I’m sorry.”

He pressed her hand gently then guided it down to the bench without releasing it. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I could ever forget you, Cullen.” She smiled at him, biting her lip, then looked away quickly.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and tried to recompose himself.

A breathy giggle broke his half-moment of concentration. She shifted on the bench to face him, her leather-clad knee grazing his poleyn. Her fingers shifted and interlocked with his. When he dared look at her again, her lips were parted slightly and she was returning his gaze through lowered lashes.

He swallowed hard.

_Say something. Tell her. Now!_

His tongue seemed to swell as he struggled to form the words.

“I’m glad I was able to catch you alone, Cullen. Not just to talk about the Templar thing, but just to talk. I… I needed you.”

_She needed me…_

“I just really needed to be with someone who… who knows all the details of my past… It’s been hard, thinking about all those innocent…” Her breath caught and shook her as her expression shifted to something more pained. 

He reached his free hand across to hold her hand in both of his. “Do you need to talk?”

She shook her head and looked down. “No, I… I think I’ve said what I can. But if you want to just… chat… I would like that. Something to take my mind off the Winter Palace. So maybe I won’t see it in my nightmares again. I can just have my regular nightmares…”

“What would you like to ‘chat’ about, my lady?”

She smiled weakly at the address and bumped her knee against him playfully. “Back to titles now, are we, ser knight?”

He chuckled softly and reached up to push an errant curl from her face. 

“Anything to see that smile again.”


	16. Part I. Chapter 16.

“Does it hurt? The Anchor?” 

He had been holding her left hand, the marked hand, in his and could not help but wonder what it was like. He regretted the question the second it fell from his lips, but she seemed not to take offense. Rather, she thought about it for a while before responding.

After that, the conversation fell into a more comfortable, natural rhythm. By the time they parted ways to try to get some sleep before heading into the mountains, he had told her his entire romantic past and gotten plenty of details about hers. 

He was lying in his bed, staring at the sky through the many holes in the tower roof and cursing himself for forgetting to tell her. They had spoken for hours, dancing seductively around the subject, but he never said the simple words he had wanted to say. 

His head was throbbing and guts clenching as he endured another fit of intense withdrawal symptoms. It had gotten much worse since they had returned from the Winter Palace. 

The small group of uncorrupted Templars who had joined them in Haven had grown into a full battalion, and the amount of lyrium coming through Skyhold’s gate, right past his tower, had multiplied as well. While most of the Templar knights remained stationed at the mountain base camp along the river, Sers Barris and Lysette were quartered in the keep in order to communicate more easily with the Commander and Lieutenant Rylen. Barris was placed in charge of lyrium rations and had agreed with Josephine that the shipments would be brought to the castle for cataloguing and inspection before distribution. 

Though Cassandra had given strict orders that lyrium was prohibited in the eastern tower where Cullen’s office was, its presence was impossible to ignore. The lyrium’s eerie song could be deafening as it came through the gates, and his duties included inspecting the training progress and troop preparedness for all Inquisition soldiers save the Chargers. He could feel the Templar’s blood vibrating with the stuff. And even though Rylen had himself been tapering down his usage with the hope of one day quitting altogether, the man reeked of it from years of heavy use. 

It was maddening. To make things worse, Ashara had been sent back to the field, this time the Western Approach, a blighted, frozen desert on the far western edge of Orlais. Her reports were troubling—as though they could be anything but.

Still, he felt lighter thinking of their conversation, the freely given smiles and laughter, her playfulness and bad jokes. Within minutes of starting their ‘chat’, the withdrawal symptoms had faded away and he began to feel relaxed and truly happy. Now, though, he clung to the memory to try to chase away the demons that clawed at the inside of his skull.

Ashara’s parents were going to give her over to the Chantry at one point, another generous donation in the family name. The fifth of Bann and Lady Trevelyan’s children, the youngest by several years, was a burden to the house. While her elder brothers and sisters were well on their way to establishing their own powerful, Chantry-loyal families of means and nobility, Ashara had been just learning to read. And ask questions. Unfortunately, those questions proved too much for the small, conservative chantry in Ostwick.

So an advantageous marriage it would be for the plucky young lady.

Her first betrothal was at twelve. Her parents arranged for her to marry a wealthy Orlesian marquis, the perfect connection to further elevate the Trevelyan name and increase sales of horses to the other noble houses of the Empire. At such a young age, she thought the idea grand, even looked forward to meeting her future husband. That excitement died when she met the weak-chinned man twice her age—Cullen had laughed harder than he had in months as she recounted the man’s appearance and mannerisms in grotesque detail—and the man had protested the arrangement loudly and dramatically to his aging parents. Such backwater trash could never be a true part of the court until every ounce of Marcher was wrung from her. She was the fifteenth bride he had rejected. Rumor had it he died without an heir only a few years later and his estate was still embroiled in controversy.

“I think I got lucky with that one, ultimately. To think I’d have had to deal with that Orlesian nonsense on a daily basis if that had worked out the way my family had wanted it!”

Lucky, indeed. All of Thedas was lucky she had been rejected by the marquis. Where would he— _they_ , he reminded himself, where would _they_ be without her if she had not been at the Conclave? Maybe some other unfortunate would have been there to interrupt Corypheus’s ritual, but he doubted anyone else could perform the role Ashara so graciously filled. 

When he had said as much, she had scoffed. “I didn’t do anything special. All I did was walk into the room before the ritual could be completed. It really could have been anyone.”

“Maybe just anyone could have interrupted, yes. But it is what you have done since. Ashara, you have saved so many and led us to this point. Few would volunteer for what you’ve done. Fewer would have done what you did at Haven.”

_Haven._

Something burst behind his eyes and a familiar voice began to taunt him. He was a failure. A broken man. Unworthy of her love. A familiar refrain.

_Ashara. Think of Ashara._

He was done pretending she was not a palliative. For days, thoughts of her had been the only thing that helped with the physical symptoms. When he managed to fall asleep thinking of her—usually at his desk, reading one of her field reports or letters, after working himself to the breaking point—even the nightmares were less intense. She would return to Skyhold later today if the estimate in her most recent letter was accurate.

_She will not be a replacement. I will not trade lyrium for an addiction to her._

Fear that he would do just that, crushing any real hopes of a true relationship between them, had been one of the reasons he told himself for why he could not start something with her, at least not yet. Maybe that was what was in the back of his mind, that stopped him when she had looked up at him, eyes dark and lips parted, breath shallow and shaking. It was the perfect moment to pull her into his arms and kiss her the way she deserved to be kissed, the way he wanted to kiss her: soft and lingering and passionate and completely. 

She would have kissed him back in kind, pouring her every need into that kiss, melting against his chest, clutching onto his hair. When the kiss ended, they would have barely parted, pulling back only enough to looked into one another’s eyes and smile. It was months of blissful torment leading up to that kiss, and every second of frustration was worth it. They would kiss again and again, tasting and testing one another, experiencing every variation on the theme.

A demon would have torn through her flesh at that moment, stealing away his love just as it had at Kinloch.

The new-old image reversed all good the daydream had done him and then some. He began to sweat and shake uncontrollably. He could not shake the demonic image from his vision; it became real and Desire was joined by Fear and Despair to slash at his sanity. His skin burned and felt like it was being shredded from his body.

He curled onto his side and retched, barely getting to his chamber pot on time to heave up the contents of his stomach. 

He reached out for the positive feelings again, the trembling and spinning slowing as her memory washed over him.

She always looked so good wrapped in his cloak, and he had offered it to her freely when he noticed how she was curling in on herself to stay warm while they sat outside the tavern.

_She was cold, but stayed outside to talk to me_ , he thought with wonder. 

She had smiled and happily accepted the offer. “It’s _too_ warm in there. And so loud. I like it out here with you better, anyway.” 

Her cheeks were flushed and her blue-gray eyes looked dark against her skin, which seemed to glow against the snowy backdrop. The great bear fur tickled along her jaw, softly framing her pretty face. In the shimmering moonlight, her hair looked more red than blonde.

_Not just when she’s wet… Or is she?_

He blushed again remembering thinking something so explicitly sexual about her. And with her sitting right in front of him. 

Those thoughts were dangerous beyond the lack of professionalism behind them. Desire haunted him. It was Desire that had taken him prisoner at Kinloch, tortured him, tried to break him. So many of his brothers and sisters had been taken by Fear and Rage, and Desire left only him standing. Or, as it were, crouching in fear, struggling to keep his mind together enough to separate truth from the fictions the demons spun out of the Fade to tempt and take everyone else in the tower. 

When he had tried to comfort himself, turn his mind away from the torment, the demons found Solona, the sweet young mage he had fallen for. They used her image to tempt him, and were almost successful. It was not Desire alone that weakened him, that nearly broke him. Lust could be sated easily enough among bored, young Templars with easy access to the taverns and dancehalls along the shore of Lake Calenhad. But it was the deeper thing, the thing that scared him now, and the reason he fought so hard against the warmth that bloomed in his belly and made him smile against his better judgment, that nearly brought him down.

Love—romantic love, more specifically—had nearly been the death of Cullen. But some part of him still held out despite the violent nightmares such emotion would bring on. Maybe that was why he had been so unsuccessful in his brief attempts to find a partner in Kirkwall, but it was certainly why his withdrawal symptoms were so intense.

Ashara made him happy, made him feel alive and more than a military tactician and soldier. But left alone to think, he too frequently turned to the dark side of this thing that might otherwise save him.

But wasn’t beating that a part of becoming a new man?

He sighed, sat up, and dragged a hand down his face, trying to clear away the mental fog with the sweat. 

“What about the other suitors? Surely not all were so bad.”

She had laughed and looked up at the stars as though the best response might be written in the sky somewhere.

“I… Well, clearly none of them worked out,” she began slowly.

“Another stroke of luck for m—Thedas.” He had been so close to accidentally showing his hand. As though she couldn’t already read his cards as it was.

She had smiled mirthlessly. “Really lucky for me. The last one was what sent me over the edge. Why I ran away and hopped a ship to Rivain…”

“What happened?” he had asked gently, resisting the urge to pull her closer and offer the comfort she seemed to need.

“He… got a little handsy one night at a ball thrown by my Aunt Lucille. I… I stabbed him. Just in the leg. I hear he’s still alive and treating women like property, but yeah… Right in the thigh.”

She pantomimed the action.

“Noblemen aren’t always the most… noble. Being called called ‘messere’ doesn’t change the fact that they’re sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigots. Even in the Marches, the social hierarchy isn’t anything earned by action. Just birth.” She shook her head. “Wish I hadn’t missed. Got much better with daggers with Isabela, though.”

“Missed?”

“Mm…” She smirked. “I, uh… I intended to turn that rooster into a hen, if you know what I mean.”

He did. “Remind me to stay on your good side!”

She laughed. “Oh, now that’s the last thing I’d want to do to you…”

They both blushed, but savored the thick silence before she moved on.

“Number four was pretty great. I actually thought… Well… Anyway. Number five, though? He died before we even met. Because he was so old! They were going to marry me off to an eighty year-old widower with no heir!” 

It was clear she wanted to avoid more talk about ‘number four’, but he found himself helplessly curious.

“So, were you… in love?”

“With the geriatric duke? Hardly!” The humor was forced.

_Don’t press, Rutherford._ But the temptation, the need to know…

“I thought I was in love once.”

Her eyes popped open. “Really? Tell me!”

“The Hero of Fereldon.” He let it hang in the air for her response.

“Really? You know her? Or are you just messing with me?”

He laughed at her incredulity. Of course, it did sound a bit as though he were making it up. “She was a circle mage at Kinloch. I attended her Harrowing, actually. She was a lovely woman.”

Ashara raised her eyebrows and smirked at him. “Lovely?” As though she were surprised to hear the word come from his mouth. 

Given the chance—and the courage—he had so many more words to surprise her with…

“There was some… youthful infatuation on my part. A feeling I had forsaken until recently.”

Had he said that last part aloud? 

The way she had bitten her lower lip and grinned told him he had.

“You never acted on it?” 

“She was one of my charges! Even if she’d felt the same, it would have been… inappropriate.”

“Do you still… keep in touch?”

“I saw her once after she became a Warden. She freed the tower during the Blight. I would have been _dead_ or _mad_ if not for her. I was in a sorry state when she found me… The things I said were… unkind, untoward. I regret them now. I wish she knew that.”

His words had seemed to stir something in her; she looked as though she wanted more details, knew that there was much more to the story than what he was revealing. Unlike him, however, she possessed enough tact to know not to go down that path just yet.

“Has it been so long, then, since you’ve felt… anything like that?”

_This is your chance, Rutherford. Tell her!_

“Not so long, no… There has been… someone…”

She had waited for him to continue, but he couldn’t make the words happen. 

Another missed opportunity… _At this rate, she’ll have defeated Corypheus and been married off into one of Josephine’s political arrangements by the time you work up the nerve._

He shook his head at his cowardice. 

_Coward._

_How else could you have survived both Kinloch and Kirkwall? Your brothers and sisters fell while you get to play Commander and moon over a noblewoman you could never deserve._

_No._

He would not do this, would not let the voices of his past twist and blame him. He survived Kinloch because he had held strong. His mind and body could not be broken. It was not weakness but strength. 

He replayed the words of the sisters who had tried to heal him before he was returned to service and relocated to Kirkwall. Kinloch was not his fault.

He survived Kirkwall through skill and luck. And the help of the Champion. Meredith was not his fault, and he could not continue blaming himself for the abuses of his brethren. Cassandra had tried repeatedly to get him to accept that his survival of yet another mass tragedy was not a punishment from the Maker. 

He just had terrible luck.

He clenched his fist around the coin in his pocket. It was his good luck charm, a foolish trinket from childhood, a reminder of simpler times back in Honnleath, and his only personal possession. 

Or maybe good luck was as much a curse as bad…

He inhaled deeply, thinking of Ashara’s scent: citrus, salt, floral musk, and her mammalian warmth. When she had returned his cloak to him after hours of idle talk, it had smelled of her. He had used the cloak as his pillow that night, breathing her in. 

The nightmares had not been as bad that night as they had been. The demons took her face now instead of Solona’s, but she was a warrior and defeated them herself before they tortured him. In his dreams, as in waking, she saved him, protected him.

He should be protecting her, though, damnit. 

His bones lit aflame and he collapsed into a pathetic pile on the floor of his bedroom, writhing helplessly as phantom mage-fire and demons’ claws raked across his flesh. His skull was going to implode from the pressure.

This was impossible. He could not bear it any longer. He had been meeting with Cassandra regularly since the symptoms increased. Every time, she sent him back to work, assuring him that he was fine. She knew the signs of danger, had seen lyrium madness at its worst. He was fine. But this…

He dragged himself from the bed, shocked to see that the sky had begun to lighten as morning dawned. Hopefully he would still be able to make it to Cassandra’s quarters above the armory without being seen in this state. 

It took him longer than it should have to get down the ladder to his office. Or maybe he’d slid down the ladder easily. Either way he was flayed alive at least twice before he was able to lean against his desk where his old Templar lyrium kit lay open from the night before. 

After several days of increasing symptoms, he had been tempted. Or maybe he thought that just looking at the remaining draught would somehow calm his cravings and the torture of withdrawal. 

Next to the kit was a small statuette of a hallah. 

_Where did that come from?_

He forgot the pain for a moment as he picked up the trinket. It looked just like the ones Ashara had left on the table at the Winter Palace before she was called into action. 

“You are sad when you think of each other but you make each other happy. I don’t understand. You both want to make the other as happy as they make you. You were both all happy that night. She wanted you to kiss her when you danced. She’ll be home very soon. You should be happy when you see her. It makes her happy.”

_What?_

He looked around. A familiar but strange young man was sitting on the edge of the desk, looking at him with sad, distant eyes.

Cullen closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. When he opened his eyes again, the boy—Cole?—was gone. 

It was the last straw. Either he was hallucinating or was losing track of time. Cassandra promised to relieve him the moment things got too bad, before he could become a danger to the Inquisition and the women and men under his command.

He stormed into the armory to find Cassandra already awake and dressed, looking through a massive Chantry tome.

“Cullen? What’s wrong?”

“I cannot do this any longer, Cassandra. The withdrawal, it’s too much. I’m losing my mind, I can’t… I can’t go on like this any longer. You have to replace me.”

She leveled a steady, thoughtful eye at him, assessing and judging every minute detail of him, probing his broken body and mind with her Seeker senses.

“No,” she responded.

“What?”

“No. I will not have you replaced. You will be fine.”

“What?! How can you say that? I haven’t slept in days, the headaches are blinding. I’m—I’m _seeing_ things. I can barely read the scouts’ reports, let alone provide the Inquisition with the level of military leadership it needs. For love of the Maker, Cassandra, how can you not tell that this has broken me?!”

“You are not broken, Cullen. When I chose you for this position, I knew you could make it through this. You are nearly through it now—“

“Is that what this is about, then? Because you chose me, your own ego is on the line? So if I crack, then you look bad too!?”

“Cullen, you are not listening to me.”

“Because you don’t know what you’re saying! How can you think me still fit for service?! I am an absolute disgrace!”

“This _will_ pass, Cullen. What you are experiencing isn’t just the lyrium. It’s coming from within you. It’s your past, the way you torment yourself. It is making the withdrawal feel worse.”

He glared at her, then started pacing through the armory. “You told me you would be able to sense if I were failing, yet you stand here denying it. You’re a Seeker! You should be able to tell that I have failed. I cannot break this.”

She stood and crossed her arms, not letting him hide from her gaze. 

“Cassandra…” He grunted in frustration. “Do you honestly still think I can do this?”

“Yes. Now, you asked for my opinion, and I’ve given it. Why would you expect it to change?”

“I expect you to keep your word. It’s relentless, I can’t—“

He grabbed at the building pressure between his temples.

“You give yourself too little credit.”

Everyone always thought he was stronger, better than he was.

“If I’m unable to fulfill what vows I have taken, then nothing good has come of this. Would you rather save face than admit—“

The sound of the armory door unlatching and swinging open cut him off. They looked up and saw the Inquisitor walking into the room, the rising sun blurring her silhouette. 

He cast a final glare at Cassandra and rushed from the room, unwilling to let the Inquisitor, Ashara, see him like this. He hoped he excused himself before ducking past her in his haste.

His head hung low with shame and suffering, he returned to his office where the lyrium kit and the hallah statue still sat side by side on his desk. 

She did make him happy. And that night had been tragic, but held one of the few good memories he had. Most of them seemed to be from the past year, almost all featuring Ashara. 

And a handful with Cassandra as they made their way to Haven. An Order superior and his closest friend. She should be able to see his failure, Fade take him. 

He moved the hallah to the side and stared down at the lyrium kit. The glowing philter sang faintly. It had been over a year since he took his last draught, but he remembered the taste well. Metallic, bitter… delicious. He had doubled over in pain with his first taste, terrified at the sensation of the magic seeping through his veins. But then that feeling…

He traced the outlines of the mixing tools with his fingers, afraid to take them out of the box only to have memory take over, ending with a draught sliding down his throat. Everything he had been fighting himself for since Cassandra took him away from Kirkwall would be ruined. Just like that, his new future would be destroyed. Everything he could become. The love he hoped Ashara might someday feel for him in return.

He flung the kit across the room with a growl of rage. The kit crashed loudly against the wall just as she stepped through the door. It missed her by mere inches.

“Maker’s breath! I didn’t hear you enter. I—“ He stood, shaking his head in shame. He had nearly hurt her. “Forgive me.”

“Cullen, if you need to talk,” she offered with undeserved sympathy.

“You don’t have to—“ The pain lanced through him, snapping his attempts to mask his suffering. He caught ahold of the desk in time to keep himself from collapsing entirely.

Her mouth fell open and eyes went wide and gentle as she rushed forward. He waved her off. He could not bear her touch right now.

“I never meant for this to interfere.” He hated himself for letting this destroy him and his chance of earning her love.

“Are you going to be all right?” Her voice was still kinder than he deserved.

“Yes…” _Be honest with her._ He sighed. “I don’t know…”

It was time he finally told her everything.

“You asked what happened to Ferelden’s Circle. It was taken over by abominations. The Templars—my friends—were slaughtered.”

He had to move away from the empathy and understanding in her eyes. He leaned against the wall and gazed out through the arrow slit behind his desk. He could hide the tears threatening to fall, avoid the gaze of the woman whose opinion of him mattered so much.

“I was tortured,” he continued, saying it out loud for the first time. “They tried to break my mind, and I—how can you be the same person after that?” He laughed bitterly and wiped at the tears flowing down his cheeks.

“Still, I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets. Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

He spun around and glared at her. He could see her putting together all the little pieces he had dropped along the way to this moment—the first time he had ever told anyone the full story, admitted to what happened to him, what had been done to him. She still looked at his with kindness.

“Of course I can. I—“

He could not accept her sympathy. She was too good to treat him with such compassion when his selfish decision to break from the Chantry was endangering them all.

“Don’t! You should be questioning what I’ve done.” He started pacing the office. “I thought this would be better—that I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me… 

“How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause… I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking it!”

He lashed out, striking a bookcase with his fist and bracing his weight against the extended arm.

“I should be taking it…” He hung his head.

She did not react as he would have expected. Her voice stayed low and level. “Cullen… This doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition. Is this what you want?”

He sighed and looked up into her calm, blue-gray eyes. How could she still be so patient with him?

“No.” He relaxed his posture, dropped his arm and shook the bruised hand.

She moved in front of him, standing close enough that he began to smell her perfume through the stench of adrenaline. 

“But…” He met her gaze for the first time, letting her see the broken man inside the armor. “These memories have always haunted me—if they become worse, if I cannot endure this…”

She surprised him by reaching out and placing a hand on his breastplate. She pressed her weight and strength into him and looked hard into his eyes.

“You can,” she stated, speaking the words deep into him.

He exhaled and closed his eyes, letting her reassurance sink in. She, of all people, had faith in him. Ashara Trevelyan, Inquisitor, knew he could do this. It went far in alleviating the anxiety and pain.

He opened his eyes again and thanked her silently for the support. “All right.”

She stayed only a second longer, saying nothing. He watched as she walked away, and rubbed the back of his neck, which was already beginning to loosen up.

She was right. He could beat this.


	17. Part I. Chapter 17.

He had hammered the final nail into the coffin of their budding romance. He knew it to be true though they had not spoken to confirm his suspicion since. Conversation at the war table had proceeded as usual, but he seldom saw her outside that room. She was busy training with Lord Chancer, the Champion trainer—he was glad she had rejected the Templar trainer’s offer and gone with the safer option, which meant training for heavier, safer armor—and would be leaving soon for the Exalted Plains to further that training. 

It would be a short trip, and relatively safe; he had been sure to teach her the necessary skills for taking down an Orlesian Chevalier, and he knew Isabela had imparted some of her duelist’s knowledge. Regardless, he had to speak with her before she left. 

Since that night in his office, things had improved greatly and showed no signs of regressing. Even Morrigan, the Empress’s apostate delegate to the Inquisition and companion of the Hero of Ferelden the fateful night Solona had come to his rescue, was unable to get under his skin the way she ordinarily would. The nightmares continued, of course, but he found he was able to escape the images more quickly upon waking and return to sleep within minutes. The exhaustion had begun to melt from his battered body, and the headaches were fading and becoming less frequent.

Talking about his past—whether because it was Ashara, or just because he actually finally let himself speak aloud the horrors he had experienced—had made much more a difference than he had expected. After leaving Kinloch, the Chantry’s healers had tried to get him to talk about it, said it would make things better. Cassandra had been telling him since they met that the withdrawal and his demons were making one another worse, that working through that pain would help.

He laughed with only a little bitterness. It was true. How long he had held out, refusing to admit he had been a victim, had been helpless against the evils done to him and his friends… What had he been missing in these past years because of his anguish?

Maybe he would have succeeded in finding love in Kirkwall and would never have made it here, met Ashara.

No… No, the timing was what it needed to be. He did not believe in fate or that everything happened for a reason, but meeting her when he did—that she even existed—seemed like divine providence. Her ability to alleviate his withdrawal symptoms by mere presence and her role in drawing him out of his scarred shell so that he could allow himself to heal were two more indications that even if not the Herald of Andraste, she was so much more than just a noblewoman from the Free Marches.

“Commander? You… you wanted to speak with me?”

He turned from where he had been gazing out across the frozen valley from his perch on the battlements and saw her framed by the stark landscape, cold early-spring winds buffeting her hair and cloak. She looked like a goddess, all coiled strength and disciplined, wild beauty. 

He caught his breath and composed himself. 

“Ashara—Inquisitor—“ unsure if he could still use her given name. “I… Yes.”

He cleared his throat. Why was this so hard after everything he had already shared with her?

“I wanted to thank you.”

She stepped forward, head cocked in question.

“When you came to me…” He sighed, frustrated with his inability to articulate what he wanted to say. “If there’s anything…” 

He looked away, running his hand through his hair. “This sounded much better in my head…”

The side of her mouth pulled up in a cautious half-smile. “I trust you’re feeling better?” she ventured, leaning against the battlements beside him. Her eyes were still filled with compassion.

“I…” _Feel like a new man, but I’m humiliated that you saw me at such a low state and wish I could undo the damage that has done to your opinion of me, but your support and willingness to listen to my sob story has made all the difference and now I know I will be able to make it, and I wish there was something_ —anything— _I could do to make it up to you and to show you how much you have come to mean to me as my colleague and friend, and I would gladly oblige._ “…Yes.”

“Is it always that bad?” She looked like she wanted to reach out to him but kept a slight distance, one he could not help but notice and lament.

“The pain comes and goes,” he answered honestly. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m back there… I should not have pushed myself so far that day.” Which day he spoke of now, he was not sure. So many days he had pushed himself beyond breaking yet continued in spite of himself. _To_ spite himself.

“I’m just glad you’re alright.” He could see in her eyes that she meant it. It loosened the knot in his throat just a little.

“I am.” He smiled sincerely as he turned to look out over the keep they had rebuilt together. 

“I’ve never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle.”

Her expression fell open with shock and realization of the significance of his revelation. Yet she maintained her distance.

“I was… not myself after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me. I’m not proud of the man that made me.” While the pain and fear were fading, he suspected the shame would be the hardest to let go. He shook his head at that man. “The way I saw mages… It sickens me. But now I can put some distance between myself and everything that happened. It’s a start.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. From the corner of his eye, he could see her jaw working, as though she were clenching her teeth, trying to decide what to say. 

She stared at her feet when she finally spoke up. “For what it’s worth, I like who you are now.” 

It was quiet, cautious. And more than he could have hoped. His heart thrilled.

“Really? Even after…” _You saw me come apart at the seams? I almost cracked your head open with my lyrium kit? I showed you my demons and what a sad, broken excuse for a man I am?_.

“Cullen, I’m serious. I care about you.” She finally closed the space between them, reaching out to grasp his hand for only a second. “You’ve done nothing to change that.”

He forgot to breathe. The smile breaking his face must have looked unhinged, beyond foolish. And she smiled back, nibbling the corner of her bottom lip.

“What about you, Ashara?” Ashara. He could still share that intimacy with her… “You have troubles of your own. How are you holding up?”

It could only have gotten worse in recent weeks judging by the reports of the Grey Wardens’ activities and occultists digging in the Western Approach. Yet he had not been there for her as he had promised himself he would.

“Honestly?” She looked at him and the confidence she showed shattered and her posture simultaneously slumped. “I’m terrified. So many people depend on us. On me. Corypheus is still out there.”

She gazed into the middle distance and wrapped her arms protectively around herself, visibly shrinking. It hurt to see her, that amazing woman, feeling weak.

“We’ve made great strides,” he offered in reassurance. “Do not doubt yourself—or the Inquisition—just yet. If there’s anything I can do, you need only to ask.” He saluted her with pride, fist over his heart.

She smiled genuinely yet sadly. “Thank you, Cullen.”

He returned the smile. “If ever you need reassurance of your ability, I will gladly offer it. You are most worthy of your title and I am proud to call you my Inquisitor.”

Her eyes grew wide and wet. “Cullen! I…” She looked away and he thought he heard her sniffle in the wind.

_Oh no. What did I do wrong?_ Of course he would mess this up, right as they were sharing a sweet moment, rebuilding what he might have torn down.

“I’m sorry, I—“

“No, no! Don’t apologize.” She sniffled again and giggled. “I thought you knew by now that I tend to cry over everything.” She met his gaze and she did not look upset.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong. You didn’t say anything wrong. I—“ She laughed again. “Oh, Cullen, I’m a mess. I’m just so tired from all the… Inquisition-ing I’ve been doing lately. It’s easy to doubt myself… Even after your kind words back before the Winter Palace. I try to remember those words in my head—‘fair, honest, and kind’, all that stuff you said about respect and being able to make decisions... I revisit your words every night when I’m lying in a bedroll in the middle of nowhere, unable to sleep.”

She thought of him when she couldn’t sleep…

“It meant a lot to me—still means a lot to me—that you think so highly of me. And you…” She blushed and looked away. “Maybe you didn’t mean it like that. Never mind…”

_Mean what like what?_

He placed a hand tentatively between her shoulders. “What do you mean?”

She still would not look at him.

“You said… This time, instead of calling me _our_ Inquisitor—saying you were proud of your choice of me as everyone’s leader—you said… Um…” Her ears were turning red now to match her cheeks. “I’m just reading too much into things. I’m sorry.”

She pulled away suddenly, made to leave him on the battlements.

“Ashara!” he called out to her before she could get too far away. 

She stopped and turned, though still not meeting his eyes.

“I meant what I said. The way I said it.” He closed the few feet of distance she had managed to put between them. “I am proud to call you _my_ Inquisitor, Ashara. _My_ leader. You did what…” He found himself back in the familiar position of not knowing what to say and felt the blood rushing to his face. 

“You saved all of us at Haven, Inquisitor. And you saved me again that morning when you found me. I just didn’t know that I needed to be saved or how.” The words tumbled from his lips before he knew what he was going to say. 

She froze. He stared at her feet where he had just poured his soul.

“Oh, Cullen…” she whispered, bringing a hand to his cheek.

He held his breath, waiting for her to tell him he was a fool. It would certainly make his life easier if she did. He could let go of this ill-conceived infatuation with _his leader_ and focus instead on his job and getting beyond the lyrium withdrawal and the effects of the trauma that were making things worse. 

She stepped close and held his face between her hands, eyes locked on his.

“I will not let you fall.” She spoke the words with conviction, her eyes echoing the sentiment in earnest. “You mean too much to me. _Me_. And the Inquisition, but you mean too much to me to ever let you be taken from me by the Chantry’s lyrium poison or the scars of your past. You saved my life when you found me after Haven… And you probably don’t know it, but you’ve given me a lot of strength to go on when things have seemed so dark. Your example. Your support…” She chuckled. “You. Cullen, I can’t cure you and I won’t try, but I will always support you and be here for you—even if that just means writing to you personally when I’m in the field.”

There were more tears in her eyes now. He brought a hand to her face and brushed one away just as it escaped.

“Ashara…”

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra’s call interrupted whatever he was going to say next.

Ashara stepped back abruptly. “I… I’m sorry… Crying again… Ugh.” She wrapped an arm protectively around her waist and wiped away the remaining tears. “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I’m off to the Exalted Plains now. Anything I should keep an eye out for?”

 

***********

 

The expedition to the Plains seemed to have gone well. After only a week, the Inquisitor had found and bested three Orlesian Champions and managed to recruit a young Dalish man as an Inquisition agent.

He scanned a recent scouting report for the area and signed off on its request for additional troop support. Ashara’s own reports confirmed the presence of undead in the area where demons called forth by the violence of the civil war had begun possessing the bodies left unburied by fleeing armies and townsfolk. It seemed the soldiers had never been informed that the Inquisition had ended the Orlesian nobles’ foolish war. Much was still in turmoil there.

“According to this report, we’ll need to plan a more extended trip to the Plains for the Inquisitor after the situation at Adamant is addressed,” Leliana announced, reading from the report in question. “Did you sign off on those additional troop requests already, Commander?”

He nodded absent-mindedly and picked up the next request. “It appears Ashara covered quite a bit of ground while she was away… They need a bridge repaired here—“ He placed a marker on the war table map. “—And a passage cleared here—“ Another marker. “And she found a promising veridium mine here, and—“ He placed another marker and looked up to find Leliana and Josephine both watching him, smirking.

“Has _Ashara_ requested anything else, Commander?” Josephine giggled. 

_What? Oh!_

“She has asked that I call her by her given name. Both of you call her Ashara! Why are you looking at me like that?”

The women burst into giggles. It never seemed to tire them, teasing him. He shook his head. The war council meetings were like having two older sisters picking on him every day. 

“Speaking of the Inquisitor, this arrived for you this morning.” The smirk made it to her eyes as Leliana passed a fat, green-stained envelope across the war table to Cullen. Ashara had been sending elfroot almost daily, with notes of encouragement and occasional humor included. He found it charming and sweet, flattered and reassured that she continued to think of him while on missions and was concerned enough with his well-being that she remembered to write to him so regularly.

He tucked it into a pocket to read later and returned his focus to the field reports on the Plains. 

His concentration was broken again as he finalized a list of requisitions for their people in the Plains. 

“Ah… A shame.” Josephine murmured. “The Trevelyans have rejected our invitation to attend next week’s soiree…”

“Didn’t Ashara request you not use her family ties to further Inquisition business?” he reprimanded her.

“This was not that. I had thought to invite them as a way of… smoothing out relations between Ashara and her siblings, though that would appear to be outside of their interest at this time. I’m rather surprised at the language they used: ‘short-sighted, selfish, slattern and trash who put her own petty interests ahead of the family’s name’,” she quoted. “Apparently her sister and brothers hold her responsible for everything from losses to the Trevelyan estate to the Fereldan refugee crisis from the Fifth Blight… I hadn’t realized things were so… inharmonious. There was no indication from my contacts in the Free Marches that she had been so thoroughly rejected by her siblings.”

He felt a twinge of sympathy for Ashara. Everything she was doing to save Thedas did not make up for the woman choosing her own path rather than being forced into an unhappy political marriage with a man who sounded like an absolute snake. How dare her siblings say such cruel things about her! He would never tolerate anyone saying such things about his own sisters.

The sympathy turned to chagrin at his own lacking communications with his family. He loved his brother and sisters dearly but was an utter failure at letting them know that. He just didn’t know where to start at this point. The rumor mill seemed to work to at least get word of his survival to them based on the latest reprimand he’d received from his older sister Mia. 

He would have to do much better with Ashara if he stood any chance at all.

“I’ve also received a number of requests for information on _your_ lineage from a few... _interested_ parties at the Winter Palace, Commander…”

“Andraste preserve me!” He gulped. “Feel free to use those requests as kindling.”

He thought the bloodbath and the rumors of his private dance with the Inquisitor afterward would have called off the hounds, but apparently he would not be rid of the Orlesian rash so easily. 

Leliana smirked and swooped in to snatch away the rather thick stack of perfumed letters Josephine was holding up. “No, _I_ shall take them. I want to know who pines for our Commander! We can use this to our advantage.” 

“I’m not bait!” he protested, horrified at the thought of being dangled in front of Orlais’s noble predators.

“Hush!” She giggled. “Just look pretty.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. 

“You know, several of these names are on the guest list for Josie’s party next week. We can toast the Inquisitor’s success against Florianne and Corypheus and secure a few beneficial military alliances, no? You’ll have to wear your full armor to the dinner, Commander, as I’m sure there will be a line to help you… polish your breastplate.”

He was honestly relieved she hadn’t gone with the more obvious ‘sword’. 

“The answer is no. I will not even entertain the idea of being… offered up as collateral for assistance to the Inquisition. Now, if that is all, I need to… calibrate the trebuchets.”

He stormed from the war room, his colleague’s giddy laughter following him.

As he stepped into Josephine’s office on the way back to the main hall it struck him that they were likely planning to use Ashara’s own availability as leverage in negotiations. By the time he’d reached his office, he was convinced Josephine would be doing just that at the party. 

He would have to say something soon.


	18. Part I. Chapter 18.

It was a gorgeous day. Spring, which had begun to transition into summer in most of Orlais, was finally making its presence known in Skyhold. The snowdrifts that had stubbornly lingered in the shadows had actually melted, and the garden and courtyard were in full bloom. 

Cullen breathed deeply, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. He was standing on the battlements overlooking the valley below. The small tent village at the base of the mountain on which Skyhold was built was growing rapidly and from where he stood, he could hear the sound of workers building more stable structures to house the soldiers and the merchants who had come to serve the Inquisition’s forces. Rumor had it some families would be putting down roots there, turning a temporary military camp into a permanent settlement—Herald’s Valley.

And there she was. Her party came slowly into view, Ashara at the lead in her gleaming armor and brilliant blue cloak. She rode beautifully, as though born to the saddle. He knew her family was known for breeding the most impressive mounts in the Free Marches and much of Thedas, but he had thought she would have been a little awkward riding after years at sea. But the first time he saw her astride Ser Noodles, the Fereldan Forder Horsemaster Dennett had given her, he was in awe of her grace and athleticism. The oddly named horse seemed to know what she was thinking without her showing any signs of directing the horse. With her full plate armor and the long wool cloak she wore, she looked the part of a fairy tale knight.

He smiled. A perfect match, that. Ferelden history and folklore were full of warrior queens and courageous woman knights. The Hero of Ferelden had been a woman—and Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, was Ferelden as well. Ashara was no Fereldan, but with her powerful build and growing military prowess, she would fit in with that line quite well. 

_….Maybe she would like to spend some time in Ferelden when this was all over…_

The blast of a horn heralded her arrival at the foot of the mountain road. He would have another hour before she was at the bridge, and then a few minutes before she entered the gates. If he timed it right, he could be at the stables checking supply needs with Dennett at the same time she returned Ser Noodles to the stables for tending. The “chance” run-in would be the perfect opportunity to speak with her before the reception Josephine had planned for the next night in honor of the Inquisition’s victory in Halamshiral and its role in ending the civil war in Orlais.

…Though based on the scouts’ reports and Ashara’s communiqués, no one seemed to have told Gaspard and Celene’s armies that the war was over. It sounded like the Plains were a mess of chaos and needless tragedy. She would probably want to rest when she got back, especially if she had to deal with all of those Orlesian nobles and the ambassadors sent from Nevarra and Antiva. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to try to talk to her about… personal matters.

Fade take it all, would there ever be a right time for him to approach her? It seemed circumstance had thrown him plenty of opportunities, but he was always too timid or oblivious to take them. Now that he had finally worked up the nerve, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out _when_ or _how_ to tell her.

He had to at least try.

An hour later, he made his way toward the stables. As he got closer, he noticed Ashara was nowhere in site. In fact, Horsemaster Dennett wasn’t in his usual spot either, but was walking toward the stables from the direction of the gate, leading an exhausted Ser Noodles.

“You’re not Ashara.” The words fell out of his mouth before he realized he was even thinking them.

“That is true,” the older man responded glibly. “Not nearly as good looking as the Lady Inquisitor, I’m afraid. Nor as brave. Or glowing.”

Cullen flushed deeply and struggled to hold onto his remaining dignity. “I—I only mean that, well, you have Ashara’s horse. Doesn’t she usually bring him to you herself? I was hoping to discuss some… reports with her.”

Dennett grinned. “Uh huh. Josephine met her at the gate with one of them poncy nobles from Orlais. He apparently couldn’t wait to see the beautiful Herald of Andraste and rushed out to the gates as soon as he heard the horns. I’ve never seen the Antivan woman so mad. She almost stopped smiling.” He let out a robust burst of laughter. “If you want to try to catch up, I think they’re in the Ambassador’s office.”

Cullen cursed under his breath as he turned on his heel and headed straight back to his office. He would have to find another time, though when that realistically might be with all of these damned nobles traipsing through competing for her attentions and…

…Andraste preserve him, they would be competing for her hand like she was some trophy to be won. The stack of marriage proposals and attempted betrothals stood taller than Leliana’s favorite raven. Half of Thedas wanted to wed or bed the Inquisitor. He’d suffered through too many war room sessions ending with Josephine’s attempts to convince Ashara to at least entertain the possibility of meeting with some of the less offensive suitors. At least a few of those people would be in attendance the next night, trying to one-up one another in their attempts to win her favor.

He clenched his jaw. Like she was a piece of property, another prize in their infernal Game. She was not just some object to be fought over, some brainless, soulless thing to be traded for in pursuit of social standing or political gain. That Josephine was even humoring them... The thought infuriated him. 

He would have to sit through the entire evening, biting his tongue and trying not to punch any dukes or barons who tried to get too friendly. Though she seemed to have a handle on disrespectful men, judging by her stories. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any stabbings, but he wouldn’t mind seeing her put one or more of those pigs in their rightful place.

Maker take them, he had to speak with her before the fools spoiled whatever good cheer she might have remaining after her trip to the Plains. She would be miserable after the party.

But maybe she wouldn’t be. Maybe she was actually looking forward to the party. She _had_ grown up a noblewoman. And she had seemed right at home at the Winter Palace, at least when she had to speak with the masked buffoons of the Orlesian court. And not all of the guests would be Orlesian; there were several Nevarran and Marcher names on the list, and at least one or two Antivans…

He reversed direction and marched determinedly toward Josephine’s office. Maybe if he said something before the party he would still stand a chance. She seemed to be pretty clear about her feelings for him and had even told him that she wished he would be more forthcoming and expressive with her. He would tell her that he cared for her too, and then the nobles would not be such a threat.

Was he being just as bad as them? The thought gave him pause and he hesitated outside Josephine’s office. Just because she had been flirtatious and affectionate with him didn’t mean he had some right or claim to her heart anymore than did the arls and baronesses who proposed every day.

Just as he convinced himself that he should turn back around, the door flew open and an impeccably dressed young man in a golden mask practically danced into Cullen’s arms. The man’s smile, his only visible feature, twisted into a sneer as he assessed the Commander.

“Watch eet, you dog-kissing Fereldan,” he snarled over his shoulder as he walked away. “Why such a woman as ze Lady Inquisitor should be forced to associate wis such low-born trash ees beyond me. Zat will be ze first sing I will change when I have her for my own.”

Cullen bit his tongue and held his face impassive as the little man left the hall.

What in the Fade did he mean by “when I have her for my own”? They couldn’t possibly have agreed…

“Commander! Oh!” Josephine exclaimed at seeing him in the doorway. 

She scurried toward him, blocking his view of Ashara, who sat in one of the high-backed wingchairs in the Ambassador’s office, head in hands. 

“I’m afraid I cannot let you in right now as the seamstresses will be arriving momentarily to finish fitting the Inquisitor’s gown for tomorrow. A gift from Empress Celene. It is truly a dress befitting our Lady Herald, but it would not be appropriate, you understand, for you to see her in… well. A dress-fitting is hardly the place for a man.” She smiled, shooing him from the doorway and closing the door partially behind her.

“I assume you met our guest from Val Henar just now. You’ll have to excuse the Marquis. He’s not the most… diplomatic player of the Grand Game. He’s rather convinced that he will be leaving Skyhold with banns.” She shook her head. “We might have to keep an eye on him tomorrow. He does not do well with competition.” A worried crease momentarily disrupted her smooth brow.

“Ah! But is there anything I can help you with, Commander? The Inquisitor will be rather indisposed for the rest of the evening, but I would be quite happy to relay a message for you if you wish.”

“I… No, no. I simply wished to discuss…” _What? Think fast!_ “…her findings in the Exalted Plains while they’re still fresh in her mind.” 

“Ah. Yes. She seems eager to discuss them with you as well. She was asking for you even as she dismounted.”

_She was?_ Was she as eager to see him as he was to see her?

“Or perhaps she was simply trying to avoid the Marquis…”

_Or that…_

“I must apologize, Commander. The seamstresses are here, and we haven’t much time left to prepare the Inquisitor for tomorrow’s festivities.” She ushered two young elven women into the office. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” He nodded his farewell and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Commander? Please wear your dress uniform tomorrow. We want to present our best tomorrow. …And there will be several ladies in attendance from whom we would like to solicit support.”

He could have sworn he heard her giggle as she ducked back into the office. Like it or not, he was going to be bait.

Just like Ashara.

 

***************************

 

He didn’t see her all day. Josephine had her locked in her quarters, wouldn’t even let her out for their usual war room meeting. He had been instructed to prepare his remarks in writing to be conveyed to the Inquisitor while she was prepared for the party. The few notes that made it out of the Inquisitor’s quarters, mostly decisions and directives based on the information provided by her advisors, were short to the point of terseness. 

She was clearly unhappy about being cooped up and prevented from doing her job. Or maybe he was annoying her with work when she was trying to prepare for the evening’s festivities.

He grumbled under his breath about the absurdity of the situation at hand and Josephine’s timing as he finished coaxing his hair into place. He had not gotten the chance to talk to Ashara and his confidence was wavering more than usual. She seemed to like the way he looked in his dress uniform, but he still felt uncomfortable in the stiff, close-fitted wool. He tugged at the jacket and examined his reflection in the small shaving mirror.

There were still faint shadows under his eyes, though he had seen them in worse shape. His hands had been steady enough to allow him to shave off the coarse stubble that tended to crop up too quickly. His hair was behaving. But the uniform jacket was just too tight for his taste. It showed every line of his torso and left him feeling exposed from the waist down. Josephine had capitulated to his demands that he carry a short sword—no matter how exacting Leliana’s people were, someone might still get through to try to harm the Inquisitor. 

It was some small comfort. He at least had the option of resting his hands on the pommel, assuming a commanding pose, should the tremor of his hands become a problem during the evening.

“Commander!” His assistant was at the base of the ladder to his loft. “Lady Montilyet has, er… _requested_ you join the others in the great hall now. The guests will be arriving shortly.”

He felt like he was walking to an execution. Possibly his own.

In the great hall, Josephine and Ashara were having an apparently one-way conversation. Ashara’s face was twisted with annoyance.

“It is more appropriate for you to make your appearance later, after everyone is seated. We must give the impression that we are governing ourselves as a court, even if we do not observe those formalities. It comforts them to think we are like them. We want them to feel comfortable supporting us.” Josephine sounded as though she were explaining this for the third time.

Ashara threw her arms up and exhaled with exasperation. “Fine, fine. But can I at least have some say in the seating arrangements? The Marquis…”

“Please, Inquisitor. It is best if you just let me handle this. It is, after all, my area of expertise. Now, please return to your quarters and finish dressing. The guests will be arriving shortly.” She bustled Ashara through the door, clucking about etiquette and appearances.

“Now then.” She smoothed the front of her uniform jacket as she turned to face Cullen and Leliana, who had been standing quietly by with a knowing smirk on her face. “You two. I would like you to stand at the front of the receiving line. Cullen, I have placed Sera next to you. Please keep her in line. We don’t need any… hijinks this evening.”

The next several minutes were a blur of instructions and reminders. And then it began.

Cullen stood stiffly beside the only other Fereldan in the room, a fact the elven woman did not hesitate to point out.

“That one over there, with the big ears and the wolf mask? He’s wearing a corset. No joke. Used to wear his wife’s smalls until she found out. Who cares, right, but he’s a bloody bastard. Punished two serving girls for being lovers, and thinks there’s something wrong with wearing different clothes, so he can fuck right off. Would be a shame if anyone found out that—“ Her voice raised as a particularly constipated looking Orlesian woman entered the hall. “—the Duke of Mont-de-Glace likes to wear women’s smallclothes.”

Cullen choked back a laugh as the scandalized noblewoman blanched and forgot to greet the Inquisition’s ranking members. 

“Josephine is going to kill you,” he murmured to Sera after shaking another limp hand.

“Eh. These gits are too wrapped up in their stupid Game to ever bring it up directly. Besides, they’ll probably be thankful to us for giving them the ammunition,” she scoffed.

She may be utterly inappropriate most of the time, but she was right. And her comments about the various stuffed shirts and obsequious minor royalty were making this circus a little more bearable.

When Josephine finally let them take their seats for the actual dinner, there was a mass of confusion. He had been assigned a seat at the head table, and found his name card unexpectedly next to the Inquisitor’s. 

Apparently, he was not the only one not expecting the assignment. The Marquis, a Nevarran noble, and Josephine were having a heated discussion.

“Please, gentlemen, please. There is no need for outrage. There has simply been a mix-up. Give me just a moment to correct the error. I assure you, you’ll both be able to speak with Her Holiness.”

_Her Holiness?_ If Ashara knew what they were calling her, she would groan in protest. 

“I want whatever incompetent servant who did this to be fired forthwith. How can you accept such ineptitude in the Inquisition?!”

Cullen looked forward to whatever revenge Sera and her Jennies might have in store for the Marquis. And if they didn’t have anything planned, he might make a request on his own behalf as a ‘dog-kissing Fereldan’.

The dramatics came to a swift end when the Inquisitor was announced. 

Ashara entered the hall from the door that led to her private quarters. She projected confidence and poise, leaving no question as to her role and identity. She was the Inquisitor.

Her wild strawberry curls were freed from their usual complicated braids and had been smoothed with oils, cascading in shining spirals and coils down her back and gracing shoulders left nearly bare by the gifted dress. The dress… took his breath away. It was the same Orlesian blue as the jacket she had taken to wearing around the keep of late, but was far from the practical warm garment’s modesty. It fit her torso snugly and featured a wide and plunging neckline that exposed her collarbones and came to a close only at her waist. The garment was modeled after a robe, tied and cinched at the waist, the fabric barely overlapping below her hips. A delicate silver chain fell between her breasts, displaying an amulet of malachite and rhodochrosite.

She was beautiful.

She made her way quickly to the head table, dodging the flattery of those eager for her attentions, but stopped when she arrived at her place and turned to Josephine with eyes narrowed.

“Inquisitor, may I introduce you to Lord Vitus Minanter of Cumberland.” The referenced man stood and bowed to the Inquisitor. “And, of course, you’ve met Marquis Jacques.” The Marquis also stood, but took her hand and kissed it while glaring at the Nevarran man.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” she said noncommittally, looking toward Cullen with a confusing expression on her face.

She was clearly unhappy with the situation, though for what reason, he could not guess.

Throughout the meal, she was quiet, staring at her plate or the middle distance. Not that her flanking dinner companions seemed to noticed. They often talked at her simultaneously, not knowing that the other was speaking nor that she wasn’t listening. A few times, Cullen looked her way to catch her quickly looking away as though she had been watching him.

She was visibly relieved when the meal ended. She stood immediately, smoothing her skirt and ducking away from her guests to grab Josephine by the arm and pull her to a corner. 

“Commander Cullen, I presume? A pleasure.” He turned, momentarily confused, and saw a pretty young woman with a Rivaini accent standing beside him. 

“I…. yes. How do you do?” He nodded his greeting. 

Before he could return his gaze to the conversation between Ashara and Josephine, another woman approached, then another, then two of the women from the Winter Palace.

When he was able to catch sight of them again, Josephine was peering around Ashara’s shoulder with a massive smile lighting up her features. She turned back to Ashara, covering her mouth, when she saw he had noticed her.

He didn’t remember anything the women said to him, their names, where they were from. All he knew was that they weren’t Ashara and Ashara hadn’t said a word to him all night.

At some point later, they were all directed back to their places so that the entertainment could begin. Once again, the seating arrangement seemed to be a matter of controversy, though this time Josephine did not intervene. 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. I need some time to speak with my commander. I assure you I’ve had a delightful evening with you, but I fear the business of the Inquisition must take precedent right now. There have been some important military developments that I must discuss with Commander Cullen.” She gave him a wide-eyed look, begging him to play along.

He pushed aside his confusion and nodded curtly to the offended nobles. “Your forgiveness, my lords. I will not keep the Inquisitor from you any longer than is strictly necessary.”

She settled into her place and indicated the placard at the space beside her. It no longer held the Marquis’s name, but his. “You’ll keep me longer than that, I hope,” she muttered. 

He sat down with uncertainty, still confused. “Is everything alright, Inquisitor?”

“It is now. Thank the Maker you didn’t run away. I had to get away from those arses. I hope you don’t mind that I changed the seats around. It didn’t seem to be working out with you and Lady What’s-Her-Face anyway. Though I saw you met Jamila. I hope you had a good conversation. I’m glad she made it here in time for this. I’ve been dealing with… well. Josephine won’t do that again.”

“Jamila…?” What was she talking about?

The woman in question took the chair on his other side—the pretty Rivaini. She laughed and cuffed his arm lightly.

“Forget me already? That’s a shame. We’ll have to work on that memory.” She leaned around him to speak to Ashara. “You told me he was cute, ‘Shara, but you didn’t do him justice. He’s gorgeous!”

He felt the color climbing his face. 

“Well, I had to leave something to surprise, didn’t I? And he’s the perfect gentleman. You’re going to love him.”

“I don’t doubt it. You’ve never lied to me about men.”

The two women, clearly close friends from before, giggled and toasted one another.

What was going on here? Was Ashara in on Leliana and Josephine’s attempts to use him as bait? Had he been mistaken in thinking she was interested?

His heart dropped.

Candles were being extinguished throughout the hall as a group of musicians filed in. Ashara and Jamila settled back into their chairs, but he found he could not relax. The music was a change from the simple tunes the minstrel Maryden had been playing for them in the Herald’s Rest. He let himself enjoy it, though he remained painfully aware of the women on either side of him—the one he wanted more than anything to hold and kiss and whisper loving words to, the other a beautiful stranger he suspected he would be seeing more of. 

Should he have found some way of telling her about his feelings earlier? Would that have prevented Ashara from attempting to match him with a friend? At least it was a friend… But why had Josephine let Ashara rearrange the seating?

He nearly jumped out of his seat when Ashara took his arm in hers and leaned against him.

“Oh! I… I’m sorry.” She released her hold and moved back. 

“No, no, it’s okay. I just… wasn’t expecting…” he whispered hurriedly. He was so confused.

“Is it okay? I didn’t mean to startle you. I should have been more considerate of… your experience. I’m so sorry.”

His experience? What? _Oh... Kinloch._

“You needn’t coddle me, Inquisitor. I can handle myself.” His tone was colder than he wished.

Jamila looked at them with a questioning eye before turning back to answer the questions of the elderly Orlesian woman on her other side.

“I… I’m sorry,” Ashara whispered, her voice small as she shrank back against her chair. She clasped her hands in her lap and turned her eyes to the musicians. 

He closed his eyes and chastised himself. _Well done, Rutherford. She shows affection and concern and you snap at her._

Her eyes looked wet.

_And you made her cry. Again. It’s probably a good thing if Josephine keeps you away from her from now on._

She was sullen and quiet for the rest of the performance, picking at her cuticles nervously. As soon as the applause ended, she fled the hall, making quick excuses and leaving her friends to entertain their guests for the remainder of the evening.

Jamila made her departure not long after. 

“Commander Cullen,” she called from the back of the hall, jerking her head to indicate he should come over to her.

He gladly peeled away from the crowd of fluttering noblewomen who had surrounded him not long after the Inquisitor had left. “Yes, my lady?”

“First, none of that. I’m not a noble.” She smirked at him. “And second, you’re an arse. ‘Shara is my best friend, and I’ll tell you exactly what I told my brother Aly. If you hurt her, I will hurt you. I’m not as connected as Isabela, but I can be just as scary. You get a pass tonight because I can tell you’re not so smart when it comes to women, but don’t do it again.”

She raised her eyebrows at him then spun on her heel and slipped through the door to Ashara’s quarters.

He rubbed his neck, more confused than ever. 

 

****************

 

The next morning, as he went through his morning assignments and sorted through the reports and requests on his desk, Ashara came into his office. She marched straight through the door and stood directly in front of him.

“I thought we could talk,” she said. “Alone.”


	19. Part I. Chapter 19.

Part I.

Chapter 19.

“I thought we could talk,” she said. “Alone.”

He looked up from the report he was scanning and took in the sight before him. Her hair, still free from the braids tumbled messily around her face. There were hints of dark circles around her eyes.

“Alone?” Her tired eyes flashed with trepidation and something vulnerable and soft. His heart fluttered. _Was she…?_ “I mean, of course!”

They wandered out onto the battlements. The sun was bright in a nearly cloudless sky, and a warm breeze ruffled the great bear fur of his mantle. Her perfume carried on the wind to him and he breathed it in deeply. 

His heart pounded in his throat. Was she going to tell him off for his behavior the previous evening? Or maybe say something about the way he’d ignored her friend? Or was this to tell him that she had accepted one of the marriage proposals?

No… She wouldn’t have agreed to marry anyone who didn’t treat her the right way…

They came through a destroyed tower he had yet to get around to addressing, onto a back part of the battlements where patrols were thin.

Maybe she was going to say what he had been too cowardly to say himself. Maybe she was tired of the flirting and nudging and was just going to come out with it. Could he really be so lucky?

She wasn’t saying anything, though. Was she waiting for him to talk?

Oh Maker, he was a mess. He massaged his neck and took a deep breath.

“I-It’s a nice day,” he ventured nervously.

“What?” She stopped walking and turned to him, looking as though she had been pulled from a reverie.

“It’s…” He started to repeat himself then steeled his spine. “There was something he wished to discuss.”

“Certainly not the weather,” she smirked.

He exhaled a laugh and relaxed a little. “I assumed that much.”

“Cullen, you know how I feel.”

_Do I?_ He took in the almost sad look on her face. Her eyes were wide, hopeful, even while she chewed anxiously on her lower lip. _She’s telling you she cares for you, you tit!_

_And you’ve been sending every mixed signal you can._

He blushed and tried to look away, though a smile was creeping across his face. He started walking again, if only to hide the foolish look on his face.

“I find myself thinking of you. More than… well, all the time, really.” She sounded so nervous and vulnerable. She was Ashara with him, not the Inquisitor.

“I… can’t say I haven’t wondered what it would be like,” he finally responded.

_Smooth, you arse. Just leave her hanging after she bares her heart. Really pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?_

“Then… What’s stopping you?” she asked, standing at his elbow, a sigh of exasperation and not a little insecurity audible in her voice.

He stopped and turned to her. “You’re the Inquisitor. We’re at war. And you… haven’t always seen me at my best,” he listed out, his voice gone breathy in disbelief. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

But, sweet Andraste, this was happening. 

He closed the short distance between them to look down into her eyes. In the bright morning light, they were the prettiest aqua color he had ever seen.

Her mouth twitched. She was fighting a sideways grin.

“And yet I’m still here,” she shrugged.

“So you are…” He moved closer still, daring to reach out to her and rest his hand on the alluring swell of her hip. He felt warmth spreading throughout his body, a soft smile of wonder and anticipation growing on his lips. “It seems too much to ask.” 

He let the moment take him.

“But I want to…” 

He leaned in, eyes never leaving hers, moving his other hand to her waist. The space between them melted away as he closed in. His blood sang like the first time he’d taken lyrium. This was magic, pure and beautiful. 

Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated so that only a silver-blue ring showed. Her breathing was shallow and shaky. She smelled like orange blossoms and citrus and salt. Her lips parted and she tilted her head just so.

He closed his eyes, following the tilt of her head with his own, leaning in that final bit. He could feel her breath on his lips.

A door slammed. 

“Commander!” It was the idiot recruit he had limited to simply running messages between himself and Leliana.

He immediately straightened, the trembling warmth of the moment chilled by the intrusion of the last person in all of Thedas he wanted to see right now. Which was anyone other than Ashara.

Her chin hit her chest. Her cheeks were the reddest he’d ever seen anyone’s. Her body went stiff with embarrassment. 

Anger, disappointment, frustration, and longing were all playing inside him at once. It was like the Maker had not simply turned His back on him, but was toying with him. He finally had the woman of his dreams in his arms, was so close to kissing her for the first time, and their perfect moment was interrupted by what?

“You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.” The voice grew closer. Did the man not realize what he’d just walked in on and ruined?

Cullen reluctantly let go of Ashara and turned to face the intruder.

“What?” he growled, letting the menace through loud and clear.

Of course, the runner didn’t hear it.

“Sister Leliana’s report. You wanted it delivered ‘without delay’.”

Cullen glared at the young man and stepped forward threateningly. The confused runner looked around the Commander and finally seemed to notice the Inquisitor leaning against the crenellations. 

“Or… to your office… right…” He backed away slowly, sensing the very real threat to life and limb his Commander posed at that moment.

Cullen moved to block his view of Ashara, trying somehow to protect her reputation among the soldiers, though he knew tongues would start wagging the second the runner returned to the barracks. 

He watched the man’s retreat until the coast was clear.

"Cullen, if you need to—"

He surprised himself as much as he did her, turning back to her as soon as that damned runner had closed the door, pulling her to him— _too rough?_ , he thought, _have I gone too far?_ —and kissed her hungrily.

For this one moment, duty, reports, the whole of Thedas be damned. It had been not just the excruciating long months since the Conclave that he has wanted this— _her_ —but years--decades--his whole life. And now she was standing here, solid and real, saying those words…

She was still stiff, but began to melt after a second, her hands finding their way to his sides. 

His rational mind came crashing back into his head. He pulled back, ashamed at his ungentlemanly behavior, though keeping his hands in place at her waist and behind her head. He would have had a recruit on latrine duty for a month for doing something like this.

“I’m sorry,” he rushed out. “That was…”

He tried to pull away, but she caught his hand and held him. With her other, he tightened her grip on his cloak and pulled for him to come closer. She was nearly panting and was smiling with her entire body. She wasn’t upset. She liked it.

“…really nice,” he finished, still a bit embarrassed by his rather untoward actions.

She caught her breath and giggled airily. “That was… I _believe_ that was a kiss. But I can’t be sure. It’s all a blur,” she teased, tilting her head coquettishly. 

His tension was released with a warm chuckle. “Yes, well…” 

_“Then I must try again,”_ he would have said if he were in full control of his faculties, and had she not pressed against him and tilted her head up for another kiss. His fingers tangled gratefully in her mess of curls as his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist to hold her to him.

Her kiss was tender and almost shy. She let him take the lead but responded eagerly.

Her lips were so soft. All he could taste, smell, hear, feel, was her. He reveled in the sensations. Her soft breath, the way it would catch when he moved his mouth against hers, the occasional airy whimper that would escape. The unbelievable smoothness of her skin against his rough face, the tenderness of her grasp. He wanted to tear his gloves off so he could feel the curves of her cheek, her jaw, her neck, her collarbones…

She shifted, draping her arms over his shoulder and wrapping them around his neck. Their bodies pressed together. He could feel her heat through the few parts of his leathers not covered in plate. He would have thrown his breastplate over the wall to feel the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle tense and release of her muscles as she responded to his touch, but it would have required letting go of her.

She was everything he ever wanted and more. And she was here, so very alive in his arms, nipping his bottom lip as she finally broke their kiss.

He pressed his forehead lightly to hers, keeping her as close as possible. She didn’t open her eyes yet, but he watched her closely, the way she smiled and struggled to bring her breath back under control.

“Cullen…” she breathed.

“Yes, my lady?”

She inhaled deeply and slowly, a relaxed grin spreading over her entire face, and looked up at him.

“ _That_ was a kiss.”

They collapsed against each other with silent laughter. It was as if the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt so light and free and genuinely happy. 

She slid her arms from his shoulder and raised one hand to his cheek. Her thumb traced his lips. She looked like she wasn’t entirely certain any of it had just happened. He had to continually remind himself that this wasn’t some ridiculous, beautiful dream.

“I thought I was being so painfully obvious this whole time, and here you were questioning the possibility. I was convinced you weren’t interested, and then you would do something or say something a little romantic, and…” She laughed at herself. “I’m already insecure, Cullen. If Jamila hadn’t convinced me to tell you, I was going to give up.”

“I never meant for you to feel unsure about… Whether I… my feelings… I don’t really know what to say or how to say it right now.” He took his eyes off hers only for a moment, struggling to compose his thoughts.

He caressed her jaw with the back of his hand, running his thumb across her cheekbone. “Ashara… You are… The most remarkable woman I’ve ever met. I… I didn’t think you could ever… That I could ever be worthy of your affections”

She smiled shyly, averting her eyes then holding his gaze with as much wonder in her eyes as he probably showed in his own. “Cullen, you…” A disbelieving sound. “You are perhaps the bravest, kindest, smartest, noblest, strongest, hardest working… most handsome… man in all of Thedas. Do not ever think yourself unworthy of anything. Least of all—“ She stretched upward to kiss him lightly. “—my affections.” She kissed him again, this time pulling his head down for a deeper kiss.

A thousand reasons why she shouldn’t care for him like this sprang to mind, all silenced by her lips.

She sighed dreamily when they separated again. He couldn’t take his eyes off her full lips, redder and swollen from his kisses. She was breathtaking.

_Breathe, Rutherford. You won’t get to kiss her again if you pass out and fall over the battlements._

He exhaled, the sound embarrassingly shaky. “Ashara, you…” How should he even continue that sentence? “You have made me the happiest man in Thedas just now.”

She smiled, bit her lip, and took his hands, holding them before them. “I…” She laughed breathily. “Oh, Cullen, you…”

He pulled her in and laid his lips gently on her forehead, giving her plenty of time to finish. If only because he didn’t know what to say next and didn’t want the moment to end.

“Cullen, you’ll have to compete with me for that title. Er, well…”

He chuckled. “I never knew I might be attracted to a man, but—ow!” She had backhanded him playfully in the gut. 

“I was hoping to see more of your sense of humor, my taciturn Commander.” She giggled and wriggled into a warm embrace. 

“You might be the only person in all of Skyhold who thinks I have one.”

“Oh, Cassandra has told me stories of your time on the road before the Conclave…” She grinned playfully.

_Oh, Maker, no…_ He groaned. “What all did she tell you…?”

“Well, hearing you now, sounds like there’s plenty I haven’t heard yet!”

“I…” He laughed nervously, embarrassed at the memories, mild as his behavior may seem compared to some of the conversations he had overheard between Sera and Blackwall. “I had a lot of steam to blow off after Kirkwall…”

“I’m sure.” Her voice took on a deep, sympathetic note. She squeezed him tightly. “You’ve been through more than anyone ever should. I’m glad you’ve been able to talk about it and heal some since joining the Inquisition. If you ever need anyone to talk to—or just to help you blow off steam…”

The familiar feeling of not knowing how to respond to her settled in. Gratitude and affection danced with a bit of shame as he memorized every detail of her dear face. She gave so freely of herself to save Thedas, yet still she had this tenderness and compassion to offer him. 

“We could talk, or spar, maybe you could show me some Templar battle techniques—though that might just frustrate you… And there are other things we could do to relieve stress… get to know each other better…” She licked her bottom lip, drawing it in and biting it as she stared into his eyes.

His heart stammered and his cock twitched. Somehow, in the time they had been pressed close, kissing, caressing, he had failed to think of the… physical opportunities available to them now that the hard part was out of the way.

She giggled and kissed him, pulling his lower lip into her mouth, a more aggressive kiss than before, though brief. “You think of some stress release activities you’d like to try, and we’ll talk about them later. I’ve got to show Jamila the keep before the war table. See you there?”

“Of course,” he growled, then pulled her to him for a last, thorough kiss. 

When he released her, she hummed, biting her lip, her eyes sparkling and dark as she turned and left.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she walked away. That had all just happened. This wasn’t a dream. There were no imaginary demons or lyrium hallucinations. Ashara Trevelyan… _kissed_ him.


	20. Part II. Chapter 1.

The lake slaps at the old wooden pier in a secret rhythm, percussion to the song sung by the frogs and the birds he had never been able to identify by name. The mist that was beginning to rise with the sun’s setting, blurring the view of the trees on the shore, frames her in clarity.

Clarity. The perfect metaphor for how he feels as he holds her close. 

He has offered her his heart and now the lingering fear in the pit of his heart is slipping away. She holds his vulnerability and apprehensions in her calloused, Fade-touched hands, and he can feel the tension releasing.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she murmurs against his neck as she pulls deeper into the embrace.

*****

 

He hung back, watching their departure from the battlements as he had before she had made her confession and they had kissed until their lips were raw. In the short time since then, they had seen each other far less than he would have preferred. Several of their guests still hung on for no good reason he could discern, distracting the Inquisitor from spending her leisure time engaged in more enjoyable company or activities. Their interactions had been limited to the war room and mealtimes. Dinners were spent trying to catch one another’s eye inconspicuously without breaking conversation with their respective assigned companions. 

It had been maddening. 

It had been delicious. 

She had snuck away from the main keep early that morning to say her goodbyes before heading back to the Western Approach. Her kiss and embrace were bittersweet.

They would be seeing one another in the field very soon to address the Grey Wardens’ activities at Adamant Fortress. She and her elite team of warriors was heading out early to scout out a nearby fort, currently occupied by bandits, but from which the Inquisition would base its operations in western Orlais, starting with the siege of Adamant and to be followed by investigations into Red Templar mining activity in the region. 

Though they had parted on such terms many times before, this time was different. In other circumstances, their fervor might have felt premature, but in the nearly seven months since Corypheus had forced them together he had seen her on death’s door too many times. She had seen him at his absolute lowest. Even before they discovered the mutuality of their attraction, he had shared more intimacy with her than anyone alive, his family included. 

They had wasted so much time getting to this point, and it was clear to them both that the world would not be conspiring to give them back any precious seconds together.

He breathed deeply, doing his best to hold himself together as she disappeared around a curve in the road. A sizeable regiment of Inquisition troops, led by his second, followed at a necessarily slower pace behind the forward party. Cullen knew he could trust Ashara’s safety to Rylen before he could join them in the Blighted desert, but he would have much preferred to be at her side himself. He had sworn to himself that he would keep her safe, and he knew she would be cold out there, especially at night.

Steps approached, shaking him from his self-torment, and Jamila arrived at his side. Though he’d only met the woman a couple of days ago, he could read the worry on her young face.

“She’ll be alright,” he tried to assure her—and himself. “She’s an impressive fighter. And her team could take on the greatest armies of Thedas. Has. This is just one more battle for them.” He hoped she didn’t pick up on the fear in his voice.

She smiled without her eyes. “I hope you’re right, Commander.”

“As do I…”

She looked up then, studying him closely. “So you do have your doubts.”

He tried and failed to avoid her scrutinizing gaze. “I’m no fool in matters of war,” he finally responded, punctuating his statement with a sigh. “Ashara could bring the world to its knees, of that I have no doubt. But I cannot silence the fear that she will be taken from me. From us.” There was no point in trying to hide the ball from her.

“And then where would we be…” Jamila whispered fearfully, turning from him to gaze out over the mountains. “She’s carried the weight of the world on her shoulders as long as I’ve known her. And now the whole of Thedas really does depend on her.” She shook her head slowly. “I share your faith in her, Cullen. And your fear for her. And for all of us.”

For a few minutes, the only sound was the wind. He needed a change of subject before the mournful sound took hold of his mind. And he needed to tell her.

“I… believe I owe you my thanks, Lady Jamila.”

She blinked rapidly at him, a quiet smile finding its way across her face. “For…?”

“For convincing Ashara to…” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “To say what I was too cowardly to say myself.”

She laughed and nudged him with her foot. “If I hadn’t, you two would have spent the rest of eternity mooning over one another like sick puppies. Besides, she needs happiness. She’s had too much of it taken from her, and had too much nonsense shoveled on in its place… So, I guess, thank you for making her happy.”

“I hope I can… that I do. And will. She deserves that and so much more.”

He paused, carefully considering his next words.

“But I have to ask… You said Aly was your brother…”

“Ah.” She jerked her head upward and looked away. “She said she told you about that…”

He worked the knot of muscle at the back of his neck, hoping to find guidance for his questions in the tension.

“She loved Aly. It was sweet… But…” She exhaled roughly. “They knew it wasn’t going anywhere, and frankly, I don’t think he felt as strongly for her as she did for him. He was always good to her, careful with her heart…. I told you I threatened him… Ashara and I grew close pretty quickly. We might actually have written one another more often than she and Aly did when she wasn’t in Dairsmuid. I may have met her through him, but she is one of the best people Thedas has to offer. At least the best runaway noblewoman I’ve ever met,” she tried at humor. 

“The pain of losing him is still very real. I curse the Chantry every night. The Right of Annulment… It’s inhuman.” 

She was right and it cut through him with a flash of shame and self-loathing like he hadn’t felt in weeks. 

“That anyone would ever think it a solution to anything—and call it the morally superior option. Mages aren’t—“ She cut herself off, shaking her head furiously. “I’m sorry. I know you were a Templar too. And she said you were at Kirkwall. And Kinloch… And… Well. Let’s not talk about that. It seems like you’ve made the right choices, and the important thing is that you make her happy.”

She wiped at invisible tears and continued. “She’ll never stop mourning him. None of us will. Aly was a great man. Not unlike you, from Ashara’s stories of your chivalry and kindness.” She offered him a warm smile. “But he is no longer with us… and it’s important that we heal and move on, if only in his memory.”

He held his breath, waiting for her to go on.

“Look, I’m not a poet or a philosopher or a priest, but… I know that you are good for my dear friend, and… and that Aly would have liked and respected you… And, besides, you’re a better match for her than he was, and you seem to actually be in love with her, which is more than I can say for him… And, especially blushing like you are right now, you’re really easy on the eyes.”

He could feel the blush flow down his chest to his socks. And the tug of tears behind his eyes.

“Um…” He cleared his throat and ran his hand through the curls on the back of his head.

“Don’t say anything, Commander, or I’ll start crying, and I don’t do big emotional scenes. Though maybe when you two get married, I’ll let it happen. But no. Not now. So just shut up, accept that I like you and I’m happy this happened because if I had to read one more wistful letter or hear one more story about how lovely you are…” She smirked, her eyes wet. “Just. Be good to her, or you die, alright?” She slapped his pauldron and walked away quickly.

 

*****

_Commander—_

_We arrived at Griffon Wing Keep this morning. The Inquisitor and her team cleared it out two days before. Without our help. The entire fort. A lot of bodies to clean up._

_The Inquisitor was not exaggerating about the cold. Bring extra blankets when you bring the rest of the forces._

_\--Lieutenant Rylen_

_P.S. Your girlfriend is scary._

 

*****

 

_Cullen,_

_I’m sorry I didn’t write earlier. The ride out to the Approach wasn’t the smoothest. Don’t worry—we’re all fine. But we did find some more evidence of Red Templar activity in the Approach, though it appears that they have moved their operations elsewhere. After we stop this demon army, we have to look into the Emprise du Lion. I’ll give you more details when you arrive._

_We were able to seize the fort without the assistance of the additional forces, so they should still be fresh for Adamant. Though I fear I may have frightened your man Rylen. I wasn’t in the best mood when he got here, and we hadn’t finished cleaning up the bodies yet. I may have snapped at him._

_Incidentally, he seems to think that you and I are lovers going way back to Haven. Any idea where he gets that?_

_I look forward to seeing you when you get here, even if we are attacking the fortress right away and we probably won’t get any time alone together. It’s cold and harsh here and I need to see your gorgeous smile._

_And the blush I bet is on your cheeks right now._

_Safe travels. I’ll see you soon._

_Your Ashara._

_P.S. Here’s some elfroot from a little canyon wetland not far from here. It’s a little tougher than the stuff from Ferelden, but it’s really strong._

 

*****

Adamant stood imposing and dark on the horizon, looming over them, threatening the first real battle the Inquisition would fight as an army. He forced himself to go numb as he finished a prayer for strength, guidance, and protection, and ordered his troops to march.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably going to be going down to one post a week for Part II. At least for a while as I catch up. It's been slow going lately with life being, well, life. Don't leave me, though! Please!!! There will be smut soon. Promise.


	21. Part II. Chapter 2.

The final, early morning march existed outside of the normal flow of time. His mind easily slipped into the comfortable discipline of preparation for battle. He focused on the plans, as much to ensure everything was ready as to avoid thinking about the danger Ashara would be in. Communication during battle would be difficult, leaving him in the dark as to her safety until it was all over.

They were to do the impossible—take the garrison that had stood against every siege darkspawn, elf, and human had ever flung at its walls. 

He had spent countless hours pouring over histories and tactical manuals, studying every map and available construction history for the fortress, looking for some possible way in. When Josephine had told him that Lady Seryl of Jader had offered the Inquisition the use of her sapper team and trebuchets, his opinion of Orlesians almost changed (almost—Jader was practically in Ferelden, after all, so…). Adamant’s age and design meant it would not likely withstand a concerted attack with modern siege equipment. The lack of a moat or talus walls at the desert fortress would allow them to use escalade assaults to draw some of the Warden and demon army away from the entrance while trebuchets suppressed the worst of the fire and took out more of the army inside while further weakening the outer walls. 

Once they were through the initial defenses, an entire regiment of infantry would accompany the Inquisitor and her elite team into Adamant. If all went to plan, they could cut off reinforcements and carve a path to Warden-Commander Clarel.

There would be heavy losses on their side. There was no preventing that. But the battle could be won, he was certain of it.

He would be outside the walls monitoring the battle, issuing orders, and trying desperately not to worry about her. 

They came to a halt a few hundred feet from the fortress walls, just beyond the line of bluffs where the trebuchets had been brought out from Griffon Wing and staged the night before. It was silent as a battlefield before a war: soldiers offering prayers to Andraste and the Maker, and several to Elvhen gods and goddesses; shaky breathing and nervous banter; and the high desert winds that scoured the dead landscape. 

He chanted quietly, turning his mind inward, then began giving orders.

It didn’t take long for the massive fist of the capped battering ram to burst through the gate. He watched from outside in awe as Ashara and her team quickly dispatched the enemy forces remaining in the courtyard. 

He signaled for the first wave of infantry to fall in behind her and successfully fought off the wave of fear that threatened to rise within him. This was what he was trained for. 

“Alright, Inquisitor,” he called to her over the sounds of battle as he moved into the lower bailey, assessing the situation. “You have your way in. Best make use of it.”

She nodded, all business herself.

“We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.”

“That’s a worrying lack of specificity there, Commander…” He couldn’t tell if it was humor or concern in her voice.

“There are more of them than I was hoping, Inquisitor,” he admitted. Their army, though much larger than it had been before Haven, was still small and relatively green.

She grimaced and hefted her sword.

“Warden Stroud will guard your back. Hawke is with our soldiers on the battlements. She’s assisting them until you arrive.”

Suddenly, an Inquisition soldier fell, shrieking, from the walls. A shade stood hulking from where it had thrown him, glaring rage at the Inquisitor. They wouldn’t last long enough for the Inquisitor to make it to the Warden-Commander at this point. The flash of a distress signal went up from another corner above them.

“There’s too much resistance on the walls. Our men on the ladders can’t get a foothold.” He was going to regret what he said next, but: “If you can clear out the enemies on the battlements, we’ll cover your advance.”

She was the bloody Inquisitor, after all. 

And she showed it, hustling to a stairwell without hesitation, her companions falling in line behind her.

With his faith and future in her hands, he rushed back to his vantage point.

 

*****

 

The battle was tense. He itched to abandon his position to be closer to the fray, but discipline held him in place. While he might be able to contribute his sword and keep a closer eye on Ashara from within the fortress, he wouldn’t be able to see the various signals his soldiers sent up, analyze the scene, dispatch and withdraw troops and artillery as needed. A sizable portion of the Wardens had peeled off from Clarel, shown sense through Blackwall and Stroud’s words, and joined the Inquisition’s battle against the risen demons and remaining Wardens. Without the additional help, there would surely be more Inquisition casualties.

Hours after he left Ashara in the lower bailey, the massive form of Corypheus’s archdemon-dragon swooped into existence, perching on an inner tower before smoke and blasts of magic obscured the Commander’s view of the battle. His heart stopped and his hand closed instinctively on the pommel of his sword.

Then she reappeared atop the walls. It was a small comfort and reassurance after so much noise and the flickering and flashing of unnatural colors of light and Fade energy. Stalking along the battlements before her, the crackling form of Warden-Commander Clarel launched a series of magical attacks against a cowering magister. 

The dragon reappeared then, snatching the Warden-Commander in its vicious jaws and flinging her limp form away from the magister who was curled in a helpless heap. The dragon closed on Clarel and then a flash of arcane energy bolted from the dying woman, blasting the dragon away from Clarel and the Inquisition’s forces atop the crumbling battlements, saving them all from the beast.

And then everything went wrong.

The fortress walls collapsed in on themselves, the dragon’s tumble pulling down what remained of the load-bearing columns of that section of the battlements. He could see the Inquisition party running for its life, desperate to clear the area before they too went down. Through the smoke and dust, he made out the shapes of several people scrambling to safety. And six more tumbling into the air, destined to be smashed to bits with the falling debris.

There was a blinding, crackling flash of Fade energy.

He surged forward, abandoning his post, and raced against time toward the fortress. He passed through the ruined gates, powered up flights of stairs, leapt over rubble and bodies, easily and thoughtlessly cutting down the few demons that dared try impeding his path. When he reached the spot, Vivienne was still breathing heavily. Cole paced in circles, muttering to himself. The Iron Bull gripped his war axe fearsomely. Sera sat, hugging her knees and rocking gently, eyes staring forward and glazed with rage, fear, and desperation. 

“What happened? Where’s the Inquisitor? Where’s Hawke? What’s going on?” The questions tumbled from him, tripping over one another for answers.

“I… I am not certain, Commander,” Vivienne responded, her voice betraying emotion for the first time in the months he’d known her. “It would appear that they have… crossed the Veil…” She offered no further comment, eyes searching the wreckage below them, the broken path on the other side, somewhere between and far away.

“Falling, falling, but everything is upside down. Sideways. Where? How? Did I…? Cullen…”

He jumped at the sound of his name, spoken with fear in a half-whisper by the much smaller man who had appeared beside him. Cole looked into Cullen’s bewildered eyes, his own wide with fear and something Cullen couldn’t name but had seen so many times in Ashara’s own gaze. 

“I will get back there. Still so much to do. Please be okay. Maybe he didn’t see…”

Dorian arrived from somewhere nearby, brushing dust from his tattered leathers. “Cole, are you hearing the Inquisitor?”

Cole nodded slowly. “She’s in the Fade. Again. Why is it always spiders?”

Realization. She was alive. In the Fade. The Fade?!

“How did she end up in the Fade?” He spun on Cole and seized his lapels too roughly. “Is she okay? Can she get out?”

Cole’s eyes went somehow wider and what little color there was dropped from his face.

“Commander, let him go. You’re frightening him. I think he can help,” Vivienne admitted, trepidation in her voice. She still didn’t trust the spirit boy.

Cullen obeyed her suggestion. Of all of Ashara’s companions, he trusted Vivienne the most in matters of magic. He might fare better if he listened to her now.

“My apologies, Cole.” He straightened his spine, reclaiming his dignity from the panic that had set in. He was dangerously close to revealing the intimate nature of his relationship with the Inquisitor, something he knew could be disastrous for the Inquisition, if not simply unprofessional and personally embarrassing. 

“The Inquisitor… Is in the Fade? How did that happen?”

“Falling. Falling! I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not when there’s so much… Corypheus is still—“ He gasped loudly and jumped. “She doesn’t know how. But the Anchor opened the Veil.”

“Who is with her, dear?” Vivienne followed up.

“The Warden and the bird—Hawke. The odd bald one—why is she nervous around Solas? Varric is trying to comfort her. And Cassandra—thank the Maker Cassandra is with me—the Divine? No, no, she’s not real. How can that be?”

Vivienne and Cullen looked at one another. This was all too strange.

“That accounts for everyone, then. Blackwall is with the remaining Wardens,” Vivienne explained. “I think it best we help them finish cleaning up this mess.” She set her jaw and placed a hand gently at the Commander’s elbow.

He was grateful for the suggestion and distracted himself fighting at her side. He had only ever heard of knight enchanters, never witnessing one at work. Despite the initial cognitive dissonance of seeing a woman so impeccably feminine and courtly felling demons with a blade with such deadly proficiency, the style was absolutely fitting for Madame de Fer. Not once did he feel his usual discomfort with battle magic the way she wielded it. It was an honor to fight at her side.

The flow of demons slowed dramatically, but without the Inquisitor there was no way to close the shimmering Fade rift that hung in the courtyard. He detailed Ser Barris’s company of ex-Templars to watch over the aberration, and found his assistant.

“The magister, Ser. He’s still alive. How would you… um…”

That decision was the Inquisitor’s to make, not his. He grit his teeth. “Keep him restrained. I want a constant guard on him. The Inquisitor will decide his fate.”

“But, Ser—“ The man stopped his protest, Cole appearing at his side and tugging him away by the elbow.

Again, Cullen felt grateful for the strange half-spirit’s actions. Hearing anyone say out loud that Ashara might not return…

There was a great clamor from the courtyard. Had another major demon materialized?

But the sound was different. It was cheering.

Could it be?

He sprinted toward the courtyard, dueling with hope and fear.

“Stroud died for the ideals of the Wardens. ‘In war, victory.’ And we are still at war. Do you believe the Wardens can still help?”

She stood on the lip of a fountain, where the Fade rift had been. She was entirely herself, apparently unharmed, and recruiting the Wardens to their aid with the grace and compassion he had come to identify as markers of her leadership.

She had prevailed. She had survived.

She caught his eye as she walked by. Only then did he see the pain.


	22. Part II. Chapter 3.

He signed off on the last of the reports for the evening. Anything else would wait for morning. Most of the camp had long ago fallen asleep, exhausted by the day’s events. 

After the Inquisitor mysteriously reappeared from the Fade, time had moved quickly. Medics patched together the wounded while others gathered together the Inquisition’s dead. Soldiers scoured the remains of Adamant for any useable loot, coming away with arms and armor, gold, potions, and the useful flotsam generally found after battle, which they loaded into crates to be returned to Skyhold. 

The mood was unsurprisingly heavy as they marched back to Griffon Wing Keep. Many good women and men had died in battle, many more injured. And the Grey Wardens… The Fereldans among the Inquisition--those who in one way or another owed much to the mysterious order--were shaken to the quick when the full story began to make its way out among the troops.

And despite the Inquisitor’s complete honesty about what she had learned in the Fade, rumors of her divinity only seemed to be amplified.

He had yet to speak with her alone, but knew she would not be happy about that.

He should check on her.

The night air was cold and still outside, the odors of a battle camp hanging thick in the air: sweat, blood, fear, and loss mingled with the usually more pleasant smells of wood smoke, roasted meat, and coffee. The few waking souls spoke quietly if at all, nodding or saluting their respects as he passed.

Ashara and her friends were camped outside amongst the regular soldiers, clustered in an upper courtyard of the keep. 

Cassandra and Ashara were huddled close together, just inside the light of the campfire.

“I don’t know, Cassandra,” Ashara said in a rough voice. “Maybe it doesn’t matter what it was, or who… or…” She sighed heavily. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Their heads hung heavy. The firelight reflected wetly from their eyes. He felt like he was intruding on something private, making him hang back, though he felt compelled to stay.

“At least you have the certainty of knowing you are not truly Andraste’s Herald,” Cassandra muttered. “Though your actions have made you holier to these people more than any actual divine providence ever could.”

The words were meant to be encouraging, Cullen could tell by Cassandra’s raised eyebrows. Below them, the Nevarran princess’s eyes were cloudy. Of all of the Inquisitor’s advisors and companions, it was Cassandra who most hoped Ashara was truly divine. The actions of the Chantry and its armies, the truths revealed by Corypheus, and the tragedy they faced every single day were enough to call into question even Leliana’s almost fanatic faith. Cassandra was taking it hard.

Ashara scoffed. “I’m certain that doesn’t make this any easier. At least for me…”

“No, I suppose not,” Cassandra conceded. “But where does this leave us?”

Ashara drew a long breath and directed her gaze toward the startlingly clear skies. “I guess that’s still up to us. It was never the possibility of divine sanction that drove me; you know that. For now, we figure out what Corypheus’s next move is, get to the bottom of this red lyrium business, and… I don’t know—we’ll deal with these big questions later… It makes my head hurt just to think of it all.”

“Do you still not believe? After all we’ve seen, all you’ve seen, you must have questions as we have doubts.” There was a hopeful edge to Cassandra’s voice.

Ashara shook her head. “I don’t know. I… I’m almost afraid to start thinking about it. I never rejected Andrastrianism, just the Chantry. Seeing the sausage being made through my hypocrite family, and then Dairsmuid…”

Cassandra clucked sympathetically.

“I have always had questions, doubts… I think I’m even more confused now than I would have been if I had ever bothered to really consider those thoughts… What I do know about the Chant… The things we’re finding, what Corypheus said…”

They fell quiet again, deep lines furrowing Cassandra’s brow as her scowl deepened. Cullen hadn’t stopped to think too hard about the theological implications of Ashara’s reports, busying himself instead with ensuring the machine of the Inquisition ran smoothly and the Inquisitor would be safe. Seeing the Seeker of Truth, former Right Hand of the Divine questioning her faith unsettled him, not least because he knew he was not meant to overhear the intimate conversation between the women.

He stepped forward then, coming into the circle of firelight. Cassandra looked up briefly, nodded, and made her farewell, leaving Ashara alone, head in her hands.

“How long have you been there?” She didn’t look up.

How did she know? He thought he’d been quiet.

“It’s okay. I was hoping you’d come by, honestly. I could smell you… Your cloak.” She lifted her head and smiled at him. “Join me for a while?”

“Of course!” He settled by her side, hoping his response hadn't sounded too eager. “How are you, Ashara?”

Her features softened upon hearing her name.

“I’ve been better. Though things could certainly be worse…” She blew out with resignation then slumped against him. 

He draped his arm around her, pulled her close. “Do you want to talk about it?” He pressed his nose into the tickling frizz that her helm and sweat had made of her hair.

She reached up and took hold of the hand at her shoulder, raising the other to his cheek. “No? Yes?” She turned her head to face him, their mouths bare inches apart. 

His breath caught. 

…Would it be appropriate? 

This was private enough; no one could see them.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, holding back for the moment, waiting for her to tell him. She nudged her nose against his then sighed, letting her head roll forward and dropping her hand from his face. He opened his eyes in time to see firelight catching in the tear that fell.

“Ashara…” He pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. “Whatever you need right now… Simply tell me and I will do my best to provide.”

“Oh, Cull.” She squeezed his knee. “The problem is that I don’t know what I need. And that…” She laughed almost bitterly. “That’s another problem.”

Atop everything else she had been made responsible for, she now wrestled with complicated questions of faith and the beyond. His own heart hung heavy in his chest; how must hers feel? He had sworn to help her bear that load, so—

“Here.” He leaned back and guided her against him so they lay semi-reclined, her body cradled against him. He rested his weight on one hand behind him and wrapped his free arm low around her waist.

She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes questioning. 

“Something I’ve found helps calm my mind when the… demons are too loud.”

She accepted the explanation without question and settled her weight against him. Even through their armor, the warmth and weight of her body was instantly relaxing. He ran his thumb tenderly along her hipline, hoping to melt her tension. 

“Did Isabela teach you about celestial navigation? Sailors are supposed to use it even more than we were trained to in the Templars.”

She nodded against his chest.

“The stars are so different here than anywhere I’ve been before,” he wondered. “But… there! That’s Satinalis to the east. Do you see it?” He pointed to the bright cluster of stars.

“Mm hm,” she hummed, nuzzling against his shoulder and jaw.

He smiled as time paused, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. Even after a day of bloody battle the warmth and brightness of her perfume clung to her. He could feel the anxiety leaving her body. With his left arm still wrapped around her waist, he tightened his abdominal muscles and shifted his weight to free his right hand to run the knuckles up and down her arm. She inhaled deeply, her breathing slowing as she relaxed. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and absorbed her scent. 

“Then… hm, let’s see…” He scanned the skies to the southeast. “Ah! There. That’s Fulmenos. Which means… There!” He pointed to a bright, pinkish prick of light just to the north. “Do you see that one? It’s almost a little pink?”

She nodded again. 

“That’s home.”

“Home? Honnleath?”

He smiled and dared a kiss by her temple. “No. Home. Skyhold.”

She was smiling. “Home…”

“I noticed the pink star the night before you and Solas found Skyhold. I don’t know if it has a name, but...” He triangulated the constellations in his head again. “Yes. It would be a couple degrees east of the castle by now. We could almost follow it home if we wanted.” 

“And there—“ The skies were growing more familiar in their shifted position. “That’s Judex. Justice.” He brushed her ear with his nose. 

“The Sword of Mercy?” she ventured.

“Mm hm.” He kissed the tender skin behind her ear and brought his hand up to caress her cheek, trace the strong line of her jaw.

She hummed her approval and leaned deeper into him. “Is that your favorite?”

“It is,” he whispered, aware of the tremble in her rising breath as the words tickled against her skin. He placed another soft kiss on her neck, right above her pulse.

A tiny, almost inaudible, whimper escaped her. He bit his lip. The sound pulled every string and he found himself struggling to restrain from finding more ways to elicit such noises from her.

The sound of someone clearing their throat called them back from their reverie. Ashara sat up sharply.

“Commander,” the familiar Starkhaven accent lilted.

“Rylen.” If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear his second had timed the interruption deliberately.

“I need you to look over the manifests and marching orders for tomorrow if the Lady Inquisitor and the first team are to be on the road at first light.”

Of course.

“I’ll be right there.” If the moment was ruined at least it was in the name of getting back home—and to greater privacy—sooner.

He thought he heard Rylen chuckling to himself as he wandered off. 

Ashara huffed and turned to face him. “How does he know whatever it is he knows about us?”

“A lucky guess,” Cullen groaned. “Does he always call you ‘Lady Inquisitor’? Do I need to have a word with him about respect?”

Her face opened in surprise. “No, no. It’s fine. A bit of a joke between us. And, honestly, if the men want to take the piss out of me a bit and make fun of my lineage, that’s fine. Sera says it makes me ‘people’ to them. Though… You don’t have much patience with nobility. I’m glad my title didn’t scare you off.”

“I hadn’t considered,” he admitted before his insecurities began creeping in again. “I have no title outside the Inquisition. I hope that doesn’t—I mean, does it? Bother you?”

He stood up, preparing to pace—and pacing rapidly in his head.

How could he have forgotten something so crucial? Was he supposed to get permission to court her? Had he already made a fatal misstep? Would she even want to continue this knowing that he was just a simple farmer’s boy with no title, lands, or wealth to speak of? What kind of future could he even offer her?

“No!” She stood and directed big, earnest eyes at him. “If you care for me, that’s all that matters.” She wove her fingers between his, holding their hands between them. “I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot.”

“I’m not very good at this, am I?” He accidentally said it out loud. She tilted her head and smiled warmly at him. 

“If I seem unsure, it’s because it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anyone in my life,” he tried to explain. “I wasn’t expecting to find that here. Or you.” 

He could feel the sappy expression creeping its way across his face along with the mounting blush. He hid it by pulling her in for a kiss, which she returned with enthusiasm.

She hummed and bit her lower lip as they parted. “You are _really_ good at that…”

He laughed, blushing deeper.

She stepped in again, pressing her chest to his breastplate. “That day you kissed me on the battlements… How long had you wanted to do that?” Her eyes narrow, though smiling.

If he was honest, he had thought of having her in his cot the evening after they’d met on the battlefield outside Haven. He laughed. “Longer than I should admit.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Ah. And Rylen has known you a few years, hasn’t he?”

He saw what she was getting at. “Yes. And he teased me about you before I really knew what I felt…”

So when the whispering began, despite his best efforts at denial (and Rylen’s cooperation in squashing the rumors), Rylen had been vindicated in his teasing. 

She rose up on her toes and kissed him again. “The Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste. That _will_ have people talking.”

He sighed and dropped his forehead to hers. “You wouldn’t believe how quickly gossip spreads in the barracks.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I would rather my— _our_ —private affairs remain that way. But if there were nothing here for people to talk about—“ He raised her hands to his lips. “—I would regret it more.”

She blushed and giggled. “Me too.”

He kissed her gently, pulling her lush lower lip into his mouth, scraping gently with his teeth. _Always leave them wanting more._

“Goodnight, Ashara. Sleep well. We’ll be home soon.”


	23. Part II. Chapter 4.

He battled with nervous second-guessing as he handed the shopkeeper the coin. 

Was it too early to give such a gift? Would she think he was trying to push things too fast? Would she even like it? What if she took it the wrong way?

_Oh, Maker’s breath. Stop it already, Rutherford. She likes you. Romantically. She needs something nice, and what woman wouldn’t like this?_

Man or woman, who wouldn’t like it? He’d contemplated getting himself something as well, but shrugged off the temptation. Ashara, the Inquisitor, deserved such an indulgence. His life wasn’t nearly so hard.

He rushed from the shop, tucking the paper-wrapped parcels into his saddlebags as soon as he got to his mount. He had managed to slip away from the rest of the party shortly after they’d arrived in Val Royeaux. No one was especially surprised the Commander was less than eager to join the others for an evening in the city, so it had been easier than he’d anticipated. The more difficult part would be dispatching the gift to Skyhold to arrive before him and hopefully before the Inquisitor, who had half a day’s lead and a faster-moving party over him. 

He hesitated to use an Inquisition messenger for such private business but convinced himself that only one of Leliana’s vetted runners should be carrying anything for the Inquisitor. Who else could they realistically trust?

He made a note to have Josephine add a little extra to the messenger’s wages when he returned to the keep.

The two-days’ ride to Val Royeaux had been arduous. The Western Approach was hard going, and the collateral damage of the civil war made passage through the Plains less than ideal. He was relieved that they would be setting out on wide paved roads in the morning and would have an easy ride to the base of the Frostbacks. If things went well, they would be at the Inquisition’s way station by nightfall, putting them only half a day’s ride from Skyhold. 

He could have her in his arms again in two days. 

Most of their guests would be back to their homes, or at least out of his hair, by then. Only Jamila would still be around—and from the sound of it, she was considering joining up. Hawke, however, would not be rejoining them. Rather, she had departed on a swift horse the morning after the battle at Adamant, sights set on the Anderfels. He could grudgingly admit to missing her. He would need to thank her properly for her service to the Inquisition when he got the chance. He also knew he should thank her for her actions and words back in Kirkwall, but hadn’t the first idea of how to go about such a thank you. Should he send her a gift? Where would he even send it?

Come to think of it, while he was giving gifts, he should give Jamila a little something nice as well. She had been the final push to bring them together, and she was Ashara’s friend. It never hurt to have a lover’s friends on one’s side…

“Are you okay, Commander?” Scout Harding approached him from the other end of the inn’s stables. “You look a bit… off. Orlesian food never sits well with me either.”

He laughed it off, grateful for the ready-made excuse she offered him for what must have been a rather ridiculous expression. “Looking forward to getting back to Skyhold, that’s for certain,” he offered in response.

“I’m sure. Though it’s off to the Emprise for me. I’ll be leaving before sunrise so we can make camp at Sarnia and begin investigations into the red lyrium mining. Scouts are starting to report in from the Emerald Graves with suspicions of Red Templar activity as well. Leliana will have more for you back at Skyhold. Have a real ale for me when you get back. Or maybe have some requisitioned for those of us stranded in Orlais?” She winked and continued walking into the inn.

He made another mental note, smiling to himself. His sister would love to meet all of the strong, brilliant women he had been surrounded by these past months. He should write to her…

 

**** **** **** **** **** ****

 

He was greeted at Skyhold’s gates by a messenger with a rather grave look on her face. “The Inquisitor requests that you attend her immediately, Commander.”

“What? Is something wrong?” 

Had something happened in the last two days? Was she alright? Why was she sending a messenger to the gates rather than meeting him herself? Had she been injured? Was she upset with him? Was his gift too forward?

“I don’t know, Ser. She just said that you were to come to her chambers immediately upon returning. No excuses.”

It certainly sounded serious. But her chambers? Not the War Room? Was she hurt? Ill?

He dismounted in a hurry and pressed the reins into the messenger’s hands, rushing off in the direction of the great hall without a look back.

He ignored the stares of the Orlesian nobles milling about the hall as he marched by. The guards he’d personally chosen and detailed to guard the outer door of her chambers opened the door and stood back without a word or question. He took the stairs two at a time. Clearly they’d been told to expect him. Something was up. His stomach clenched as his mind flew through a hundred worst-case scenarios.

“Commander, I see Arissa got my message to you. Good.”

Where was her voice coming from? It echoed, carrying through her massive bedchamber. He hadn’t even crested the steps. How did she know it was him?

“Inquisitor? Ser?”

A delighted giggle bounced off the walls.

“ _Ser?_ Really? Did you just call me ser?”

Was she… drunk?

He stepped farther into the room, looking around. A warm rush of relief rose in his chest as he realized where her voice was coming from.

“Ashara…” He crossed the room to stand outside the privy. The sounds of sloshing and her sweet giggles mixed with the song of the constantly running water. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking a bath, silly. Someone sent a lovely set of bath oils to Skyhold. I just got back yesterday, so this is the first I’ve used them. Someone has excellent taste.”

Indeed, the heady aroma of the custom blend twisted and danced with the tendrils of steam that slinked through the door. 

“Let’s see… elfroot, for sure. And it’s strong. I haven’t been this relaxed in… ever…” She hummed blissfully. “And… Embrium? Yes, definitely embrium. And there’s certainly some blood lotus in there. And something else… I can’t figure it out. Can you smell it out there, Commander? Any thoughts?”

He smiled to himself. She was close. “A gift, you say? Rather a personal one, I’d think.”

“Maybe someone wants to get a little personal with me, Commander. As my trusted advisor, I would greatly appreciate your advice on this matter. I don’t think Josephine should find out that someone is sending the Inquisitor such… _intimate_ … gifts. Any thoughts, Commander? How ever should I respond?”

She appeared through the steam then, wrapped in a white towel, her wild hair piled atop her head, momentarily tamed by washing and the hair oil the shopkeeper said was a favorite among the Rivaini nobles at the Orlesian court, and secured with a long brass hair pin. Her skin was beautifully flushed and looked perfectly soft.

He forced himself to breathe normally, fisting his hands tightly to maintain control. “Well, it sounds as though you appreciated the gift, so… a thank you letter on Inquisition stationary is probably…” 

He cleared his throat, scratched at the back of his neck. She was walking toward him now, one of the oils in her hands, the preserved embrium bloom floating inside the twisted blown glass. 

She tilted and head and smirked. “Just a thank you note? Hmmm… It would seem that this person knows quite a bit about me already. Maybe a more personal thank you?”

She sidled up alongside him, raised onto her tiptoes, and placed a soft kiss on his cheekbone.

His eyelids fluttered as his head spun. _Keep it cool, Rutherford._

“And what kind of… um… personal… thank you did you… um…”

She chuckled low in her throat and held out the bottle. “I thought maybe the thoughtful, romantic person who sent this to me might take some pleasure in helping me apply it?” Her hip and eyebrow cocked playfully. “Seems like the kind of gift that’s meant to be shared…”

His breath left him in a rush. He knew his mouth was open, and could feel the rapidly rising blush staining his cheeks. 

Was she suggesting…

She winked, then walked over to her bed where she lay down on her stomach while seamlessly redraping the towel just across her hips. She kicked her heels playfully, watching him with a twinkle in her eye. “Well?”

He bit his lip, trying to hide the massive smile that wanted to break out, and closed the distance to the bed.

“You’re pretty close, you know,” he said as he worked the cork loose from the bottle. “It’s _royal_ elfoot—stronger.”

She hummed as the first drops of oil drizzled onto her skin. 

“And the embrium is obvious.” 

He set the bottle aside and discarded his gloves.

“Blood lotus, you guessed…” 

A sharp intake of breath and then a satisfied moan escaped her full lips as he laid his hands on her bare skin. It was the first time he’d actually touched her. Her skin was like velvet, warm from the bath, glowing now as he worked the oil into her tired muscles.

“And rashvine.”

She mewled appreciatively as his thumbs found a particularly bothersome knot along her left shoulder blade.

“But rashvine doesn’t have a perfume, and there’s something else in there that I don’t recognize…”

He smiled to himself. He and the shopkeeper came up with the blend of herbs together, designed it specifically for her, based on Cullen’s stories of the beautiful woman he was courting. Then he’d picked the prettiest bottles from those available and had the embrium blooms added before they were filled.

“Arbor blessing,” he murmured. He kneaded, loosened her tight shoulders while he waited for a reaction—would she understand?

“All healing herbs…” she thought aloud. 

“Yes… Good for recovering from battle and long rides and camping in the wilderness.” He ran his fingers down the intricate musculature of her back. Maker, she was a sight.

She gasped and rose up from the bed a little, looking back at him. “The herbs I sent you back in Haven!” She laughed at his acknowledging smile.

He placed a tender kiss on her upturned cheek and nuzzled her ear. “And…?”

She made a pleasant sound and laid back down, letting him resume his work on her tired muscles. 

“Rashvine … the warming is certainly pleasant...”

“And arbor blessing,” he reminded her.

“ _I shall not fear the winter’s sting…_ ” she mused.

He nodded to himself. He would always keep her warm.

“I think I remember reading about arbor blessing a long time ago. Something about how hard it is to cultivate but…” She inhaled softly. “It brings comfort.” The corners of her mouth curled up and her eyelids grew heavy.

“And the rashvine—it doesn’t just warm, it hardens the skin. Like armor.”

“Oh, Cullen…” She turned hallway, raising up a bit on her elbow. “That…”

He silenced her coming tears with a gentle kiss. 

“Cullen, that is… You… Oh!” She pressed soft, moist kisses to his mouth over and over. “No one has ever done anything so… romantic for me.”

She twisted farther to awkwardly caress his cheek, the friction reminding him that he hadn’t shaved—hadn’t bathed at all—since leaving Val Royeaux more than two days ago. 

“Ashara, I fear I’m not exactly… fit for your company as it is. I should probably—“

“Nope.”

“What?”

She laughed and turned more fully, pulling the towel back up to cover her breasts. “No. You’re not leaving. There’s a change of clothes for you in the privy—cloth, no plate!—and dinner will be delivered for both of us in another hour or so.”

“Ashara! I… You’re taking quite a risk of everyone—“

“Don’t worry, Cull.” She pushed her hand through his already messy curls. “They think you’re up here to discuss Adamant. We’re working long into the night to try to understand what I learned in the Fade—which we will do. But not tonight.”

He felt the warmth rising from the pit of his stomach.

“Tonight is about us. Alone. We can talk about anything you want—but not work. And we have the whole night.”

“Well, then. I…”

“Go!” She slapped his rerebrace. “Bathe. Change. Then come court me.”

“Yes, ser.” 

His entire being lit up. The whole night, alone, with his Ashara…


	24. Part II. Chapter 5.

The dwarven-style privy was more luxurious then he’d realized. The enchanted vessel that brought constantly flowing fresh water to the Inquisitor’s chambers was a marvel. He’d heard of such things—supposedly King Marric, Queen Rowan, and Loghain Mac Tir had been kept alive by the presence of one in the thaig they’d discovered back during the rebellion—but had never seen one before they’d arrived at Skyhold. The convenience was made even greater by Dagna’s expertly engineered fire rune. And the soaps and oils and various pampering gifts lining the low shelf by the bathtub took the experience to the next level. 

He actually felt relaxed.

He didn’t linger in the bath. As tempting as that was, the company awaiting him was far more appealing. He pulled himself reluctantly from the tub and toweled off. The thick, Tevinter cotton was remarkably soft. This was much better than the usual quick, cold showers he took in the gentle spring-fed waterfall in the pools beneath Skyhold. The twinge of guilt he felt for the indulgence was silenced by the swell of privilege and pride that he was sharing the Inquisitor’s personal space upon her request—she wanted to treat him to the luxuries he’d arranged for her. 

He didn’t fight the grin that bloomed across his face as he pulled on the soft lambskin breeches she’d placed in the privy for him. These were new, and felt almost sinful against his skin. The fine knitted stockings, linen braies, and shirt were also new, and nicer than anything he’d ever worn. She was spoiling him.

When he walked back into her bedchamber, she was seated at her desk, a mirror propped before her as she twisted the front part of her hair away from her face. She tied off a braid and looked up, a bright smile gracing her face. 

“Oh good, they fit. I wasn’t sure. I hope they’re to your liking. I didn’t want to get anything too fancy.”

Hearing her acknowledge the gift warmed him even more. “Yes, everything fits quite well. Thank you. I… I’ve never worn such finery.”

“Well,” she said, standing from her chair. “You more than deserve it. There’s a matching jerkin over by the sofa. To replace those beat-up old leathers you’ve been wearing. And new gloves. Lined with august ram wool. It’s so soft. I hope you like it.”

He walked over to the sofa and picked up the gloves. “Soft” was an understatement. The leather was the supplest he’d ever felt, and the august ram’s wool was like fluffy spun silk. He’d never felt something so… luxurious. He’d certainly never owned something this nice. Or expensive. She must have spent a small fortune on these items. He blushed.

“Ashara, you didn’t have to—you shouldn't have—I mean, I’m grateful—very much so, but you shouldn’t—“

She had crossed the room as he examined the gifts and grabbed his hand, stopping his protests. 

“Cullen. You are the Inquisition’s general. We are no longer a scrappy group of rebels hunkered down in an abandoned cult outpost. Josephine would say that you should reflect the Inquisition’s position. But I—“ Here, she stepped in, opening his arms to her and bringing her hands to his chest where they toyed with the thin linen of his shirt. “I think you deserve all the best. No one works as hard as you. And I want to wrap you in an embrace all the time. And I can’t.” She turned her bright eyes up to his. “I can’t be with you all the time to make sure you’re taking care of yourself and being kind to yourself. So, I thought the next best thing would be to clothe you in softness so you feel my affections all the time.”

She blushed and exhaled a self-conscious laugh, turning her reddened face away, studying the ties of his shirt as she twisted them in her fingers.

He reached up and took her hands, holding them over his heart.

“Ashara…”

She looked back up, a sweet grin spreading, her eyes soft. He kissed her smile gently.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He had no other words. Such a generous gift… “I’ve never…”

He kissed her again before his voice cracked with the overwhelming surge of emotion. 

She returned the kiss eagerly, as though she’d been waiting for the opportunity to show him how passionately she felt. When she finally pulled away, she kept his lower lip trapped between hers as long as possible, sending jolts of lust through his gut. A low hum rose from inside her, resonating deep in his own chest. 

“No one has ever given me what you have, Ashara,” he choked out. 

Her hand flew up and tangled in his curls. “Cull…” She placed a swift kiss on his mouth.

“Even before your generous gift today. The chance to atone… While I do not know that I can ever fully make good for my past actions, you’ve given me an opportunity to try. Your patience with me as I… recover… I don’t know that I would have done the same in your shoes. Thank you. And thank you for…” 

This time, she cut off the tears before they could sound in his voice, her other hand—the marked one—coming to his face, cupping his chin, the thumb pressing against his mouth.

“Cullen, _you deserve the best._ And you will have it to the extent the Inquisition and I can provide it. The best troops, the best armor, the best—“ She replaced her thumb with another quick kiss. “—of everything.”

He smiled down at her, unable to speak while the heady blend of emotions stirred in his heart. 

“Now,” she said, stepping away, “before I get too carried away already, let me get you something to drink. Ale? Mead?”

He cleared his throat. “Whatever you’re drinking is fine for me as well.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder as she slithered toward the casks, showing off her muscular curves as she did so. 

“You’ve not eaten since you returned to the keep. Dinner should be here very soon. Can you wait or would you like a snack to tide yourself over?”

As if in response, his stomach growled, embarrassingly loudly. She laughed musically, the sound colored by desire. 

She returned to his side with a chunk of dark bread and some hard cheese, and a flagon of ale. 

It was the Fereldan ale she’d had brought in just for him. He quickly licked the foam from his upper lip before flashing her a grateful smile and taking a huge bite of the bread. 

She laughed when he nodded his thanks. “So, it would appear that I will get to stay at Skyhold for longer than a few days this time.” 

She sank onto the sofa and pulled a knitted blanket onto her lap. She was wearing a thin dressing gown ( _over what?_ ) and there was still a chill in the air despite being summer below the mountain peaks.

“Are you cold? Should I stoke the fire a little?” He swallowed the last of the bread and cheese.

She giggled. “You _are_ good at stoking fires…”

_What?_ An odd compliment.

“Should I put some wood in?”

She giggled again. “Sera would have busted a gut by now if she were here!”

“What?” Years of barracks living rushed back to mind, hot blood racing to his cheeks with it. “Oh! No, I—I didn’t mean… Unless you… Um… Maker’s breath…”

He turned away almost too quickly, sloshing his ale as he brought his other hand up to rub the back of his neck.

“Oh gods, Cull, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to embarrass you. I’ve been around Sera and Blackwall too much.”

He turned back toward her slowly, peeking around his shoulder. She was blushing prettily, her hands in front of her mouth. Her eyes sparkled in the waning light. He moved toward her, the courage of comfort and the knowledge of her affection for him pressing him onward. She let him lower her hands from her face to reveal that she was biting her plump lower lip.

Lust stirred within him, drawn up by her teasing eyes. 

“Unless I… what, Commander Cullen?”

He bent down, bringing his face to her level. “Unless… you want me to…” He took her chin in his hand. “Stoke…” He flicked his tongue across her upper lip, tasting the mead she’d been drinking. “Your fire.” He nipped her juicy lower lip.

A shuddering breath left her. “Mm… I think I’d like that…”

He growled and moved his hand from her chin to the back of her neck, wrapping it in her hair, and brought the other to her waist as he knelt against the edge of the sofa. “I know many ways to stoke a fire, my lady. Perhaps you can teach me a few more?”

“Cullen…” She tilted her head forward, her eyelids lowering.

“Inquisitor? Commander?” A reedy voice rang up the stone stairwell. 

_Blight take them all!_

“Sorry to interrupt, messeres. I know you have quite a lot of business to attend to this evening.” The young elf woman trudged up the stairs, too distracted by her awkward load to notice Cullen startle and scamper away from the sofa like he’d just burned himself on it.

“Cook said she couldn’t get those fruits you wanted, Your Worship, but she said she was happy to prepare the shepherds pie. Said she hadn’t had the chance to make it in ages, what with having to cook for so many. Says the potatoes don’t do right if the thing’s too big.”

Cullen couldn’t help but be impressed by the size of the tray the woman so expertly managed despite her slight frame. She maneuvered it adroitly onto a low table near the sofa without spilling a morsel from the overloaded thing.

“There you are. And Madame de Fer added this.” She waved a hand at a covered dish. “Said it was a surprise from her. I… didn’t look to see what it is but I’m pretty sure it’s something nice. She… scares me, so I didn’t ask.”

Ashara smiled graciously at the serving-woman. “Thank you, Bernadette.”

“Should be enough to keep you while you work. But I’ll remain available if you need anything else this evening.”

“No need, Bernie. Please, take the rest of the evening off. Everything looks marvelous. Tell Madame de Fer thank you for us. I’m sure it’s… something nice.”

The elf woman curtsied low and left silently, shutting the door so quietly he hardly heard the signal that they were alone again.

“Maker, but that was close!” Ashara exclaimed, crumbling forward. “I’m so glad I asked her to start announcing her presence. I’m thinking I should just ask Leliana to take her on to train as a spy.”

“Indeed,” he exhaled, his pulse rate returning to normal. “Did I hear her say shepherd’s pie?”

Ashara smiled mischievously, nibbling at her lower lip. “I was hoping you’d like it. Something from Ferelden. Just for you.”

The Maker was surely smiling upon him, bringing this woman into his life. He hadn’t had shepherd’s pie since he left Ferelden more than a decade ago. It had been his favorite as a boy.

“How did you know?”

“Honestly, I didn’t. I have to admit I’m relieved.”

He settled next to her and pulled the table closer to them. 

“I’ve just never met a Fereldan who didn’t like shepherd’s pie. And, frankly, after that blighted desert, I’ve wanted hot, hearty food, and what’s better for that than shepherd’s pie?” She pecked his cheek. “Thought you might be in the same mood.”

“Always!” 

She smiled and quirked her eyebrows. “Now eat. Tuck in!”

It was the best meal he’d had since he left home as a boy. Having the loveliest woman in all of Thedas at his side just made it all the better.


	25. Part II. Chapter 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be smut. Definitely NSFW.

His belly was full of delicious Fereldan stew. Fereldan ale swam in his veins. The taste of the strawberries Vivienne had somehow procured for them still lingered on his tongue. The beautiful Ashara was tucked under his arm beside him. For this moment, all was perfect. The world was whole and at peace, at least within these walls.

She sighed happily. “You Fereldans sure know how to do it.” She giggled. “I mean you all make some serious food. I’m fit to burst!”

He smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “We don’t usually eat that much,” he teased.

She laughed softly. “Don’t judge me. It was just so good.”

“That it was. And if we were to be judged for overeating this evening, I’m afraid I am the greater sinner.” He patted his stomach before kissing her head again. 

“My plan worked then.” She sat up straighter and pulled her feet up onto the sofa. She wore intricately knitted Ander-style stockings under her dressing gown. Something about that little detail caught in his mind—she must sleep in warm stockings. Too keep warm? After Haven…

“You know I worry about you not eating enough when I’m not around.” She trailed a long finger lazily up his thigh. “Maybe if you had some more tempting options.”

If temptation was the issue, she was certainly helping. 

He caressed her cheek and gazed down at her. “Why me?” he wondered aloud. “How am I so lucky to have your attentions, my lovely Ashara?”

She blushed at the term of endearment. 

“Cullen.” She took his hand. “What you _did_ was just being you. You’ve been so kind to me. We’ve been over this before, Cull. Your strength, your dedication and loyalty. Everything about who you are and everything you’ve done for the Inquisition and for me. And even… Even if you made mistakes or were cruel or acted out of fear or anger in the past… Cullen, that doesn’t matter. You are a good man. A kind and strong and… very handsome man.”

She stretched up and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

“Now no more of that. We have the evening to ourselves. No more interruptions. So let’s enjoy ourselves, shall we?”

He laughed quietly. “Alright.” 

The familiar awkwardness of not knowing what to say began to settle in. She was too kind to think and say these things. How could he ever come to accept her version of him, the strong, kind, good man? He had accepted that she was romantically interested in him to some extent—though how far was she interested in taking this? He was inches from the precipice and would happily plunge into love with her, but what if she was only interested in something simple with no expectations for the future? Would he be able to handle that rejection? And what if this grew into something serious and they... got married? Would her family ever accept him? Would they even get involved? What if her previous experience being farmed out for marriage soured her on the idea? 

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice pitched with concern. “Where’d you go?” She cupped his cheek and looked up at him, eyes wide.

“I… Was just thinking about you, my lady,” he bluffed.

“Oh? And just _how_ were you thinking of me, my knight?”

“I assure you, my lady, that it is all entirely pure.” He smirked at her.

“Now there’s a shame.”

His breath caught in his throat then came out as a growl as she pulled herself into his lap, straddling his thigh. She giggled at the sound before nipping at his lower lip.

“Have I offended you, my lady? I promise you my thoughts of you are… entirely… chaste.” He traced her figure through the thin fabric of her robe, carefully observing her facial expressions and the sound of her breath as she reacted to his exploring touch. “I have no intention of… seducing you, my lady.” He bowed his head to whisper in her ear, bringing his mouth closer to let his breath tease along the sensitive skin of her neck.

She whimpered and inhaled a shaky breath. “Hmm… Is that so?” A battle-hardened finger trailed up his arm. “I guess that means _I’ll_ have to seduce _you_ ,” she whispered huskily, setting the fine hairs on his neck on end. “With your thoughts so pure, it sounds like I might have my work cut out for me…” She shifted to straddle his lap completely and nipped his earlobe. She was perched above him, not yet resting her weight on his legs. “I hope these efforts will not… offend you, good ser knight.”

His cock twitched against the fine linen of his new smallclothes. The unfamiliar sensation of that delicate friction provided a physical reminder of her affections, adding to the effect. He pulled on deep reserves of strength, as he used to call upon lyrium, to maintain control and an air of calm.

“No, my lady,” he choked out. “No, I am not offended. Perhaps… surprised.”

He brought a hand to the small of her back, earning a short gasp and shiver. He had to bite back his own trembling reaction.

“Well, then…” She lowered herself to rest her weight on his lap. “That’s… Good to hear.” Her hands drifted to his shoulders, fingers tracing his collarbones through the thin fabric of his shirt. “But, pray tell me, ser knight… How _would_ I successfully seduce such a chaste and honorable man?”

He needn’t answer her. A hand found its way into his hair, tangling in the curls, scratching lightly at his scalp. His breath came uneven and shaky, but he held onto enough of his faculties to continue their game.

“Well… my lady…” He traced gentle circles on the small of her back, relishing in the heat radiating through her dressing gown, wondering what she wore beneath it, nearly losing his cool again at the thought. “I believe it would be… ungentlemanly of me to voice such things.”

He smirked teasingly.

She narrowed her eyes, puckering her lips in a grin, then took his mouth in a deep kiss. Her lips were soft. She tasted of mead. Her tongue was curious and shifted between powerful and timid, teasing him to seek more when she softened the kiss and pulled away ever so slightly.

“Ashara…” 

“Cullen…” She giggled and leaned back, arching her back. 

He groaned with desire. Her dressing gown was draped low and the silken fabric clung to her body, revealing the soft shape of her breasts. He gave up fighting himself and fisted a hand in her hair and pulled her to him for a fierce kiss. 

She slid forward down his lap, pressing herself to him. The swell of her breasts against his chest took his breath away. It had been so long since he’d had a woman in his arms. And it was her. It was better than he’d imagined in all his dreams. She was so warm and soft and strong and beautiful and she smelled of summer and tasted like honey.

“My beautiful…”

She sighed. 

“Ashara, you are the most incredible woman in the world. I have never known anyone like you.” He looked at her in wonder, taking in every detail of her growing desire.

“Oh, Cull…” She rested her forehead against him. “You…” She didn’t finish the sentence, pressing more hungry kisses to his mouth instead. 

He returned each with his own growing need. 

Her breath was coming faster now, crushing her breasts against him as her chest rose and fell, her nipples teased and hardening from the friction. The increasingly less subtle reminder of her arousal drove his own closer to the edge.

The hand not in his hair began to tug gracelessly at the laces on his shirt. He finished the job for her and broke their kiss only long enough to pull the shirt over his head. She ran her nails down his chest, tickling and exploring the lines of disciplined muscle, sighing into their kiss as she explored.

He brought a hand to her jaw, tilting her chin up and exposing her throat to his mouth. She gasped and whimpered when he found a particularly sensitive spot just by her pulse. He memorized the place like a landmark on a map of her body, reminding himself to return after he’d scouted the rest of her terrain. He had so many options before him now, so many places and ways to touch her. Which were her favorites?

She responded to his hand tangling in her hair with a moan, rocking her hips into him.

She shuddered and let out a high whine when he skimmed his hand along her side, slowing at the dip of her waist.

Running his fingers along the sash that kept her robe closed made her breath come in short gasps until he moved along.

The lowest part of her torso, at the juncture of her hip and thigh, was remarkably sensitive. Just a simple press of his thumb alongside the thick tendon earned a sharp “oh” and another swivel of her hips that pressed her growing hear against the lacing of his breeches.

When he moved his hand from her full hip to cup the soft roundness of her arse, her head lolled to the side, again giving him better access to that sweet spot on her neck, just below her jaw.

With his mouth latched to her pulse, he brushed his fingertips lightly along her side again, earning him a desperate whine and then uncontrolled spasms that arched her back and pulled open her dressing gown.

One of her thickly-muscled thighs was exposed nearly to its apex by the flimsy garment, the ties dangling temptingly against the naked skin between the hem of the robe and the top of her stocking, a tassel resting right between her legs. Her writhing and the play of his hands were slowly uncovering more and more of her athletic body. 

“Ashara, I…” He plucked at the ties. “May I?”

She bit her swollen lower lip and nodded eagerly. “Please.”

He pulled slowly, keeping his eyes on hers. The anticipation there rivaled his own.

The knot untied, her dressing gown fell open, exposing her to him. The firelight cast the lines of bone and muscle in sharp relief. Dark nipples stood out against the olive skin of her high, wide-set breasts. A malachite pendant rested between, drawing his eye down her taut stomach to the thatch of dark hair. Her tattoo looked primal in the flickering light, like the markings of an ash warrior. The swirls of scarring along her lower abdomen and leg looked like marble, strengthening the statue-like impression of her powerful physique. 

“Maker’s breath…”

“Not so bad yourself, Cull.” Her eyes, already hazy with desire, narrowed with her lusty smile. “Now… Touch me?”

He caught himself staring and recovered with a laugh at himself. He couldn’t help it—she was incredible. “Of course…” He guided the silk off her shoulders and let it slither down her back to the floor. “How… how do you like to be touched?”

She let out a deep, shuddering breath before taking his right hand and raising it to her lips. She kissed the tips of his fingers before sucking one into her hot, wet mouth. His breath caught with the sensation. She was teasing him with a hint of things to come. Or he hoped she was. She winked, confirming the suspicion. 

“But we’ll get there later,” she whispered, lowering his hand to her chest. She dragged his fingers down her breastbone, letting him feel the ridges of rib and muscle between her breasts, then along the lower line of her rib cage and across her stomach. There were sheets of hard muscle just under the layer of feminine softness of her belly. He wanted to dig his fingers into that layer of fat, marvel at the dents his fingers would make in her flesh, but she didn’t linger. She wrapped his fingers around her hand and brushed the backs of his knuckles back up her torso, then along the line of a breast. Each breath brought the soft swells into contact with his fingers, teasing him with the potential of filling his palms with their fullness.

“And how do you like to be touched?” she drawled, slowly lowering his hand to rest it in his lap, close enough to feel the humidity and heat radiating from behind the thatch of coarse hair pressed to the laces of his pants.

Who? Him? How did he like to be touched? The thought didn’t even occur to him. 

“Later,” he managed.

“Later?” She cocked her head playfully.

“Mm. Later. Right now is all about you, my lady.”

He caught the sound falling from her lips as he took her in a rough kiss and rolled to the side, planting her on the sofa so that he was bent over her.

He turned and pushed away the low table with the remains of their dinner, clearing the floor so he could sink to his knees before her.

She watched him, eyes glazed, mouth slightly open and swollen with kisses. “Cullen?”

He ran his hands slowly up from her ankles. “Ashara, I want to… May I… taste you?”

She whimpered and bit her lip. He could feel her legs relax and fall open just a little more.

“Andraste’s ass, Cullen. Yes! Oh Maker, yes!”

He fought the urge to take her with the same enthusiasm with which she had given her consent, instead trailing wet kisses from the inside of one knee up her thigh. Powerful ropes of muscle twitched under a layer of softness. 

He smiled against her velvety, warm skin, savoring each reaction. Her breath was ragged, hitching when he flicked his tongue against her flesh, accompanied by soft sounds of anticipation and pleasure.

He inhaled her musk—faint and slightly sweet beneath the bath oil that still perfumed her skin—and pulled her closer to the edge of the sofa, hooking his arms under her thighs. 

She bloomed for him with a shuddering sigh. 

He cast his eyes upward, taking in the breathtaking sight. Her head was thrown back, her curls wild, her lush mouth open. Her chest rose and fell with her erratic breath.

He nipped at tender flesh at the apex of her thigh, calling her attention down to him.

“Cull… Cullen,” she breathed. She was quivering in his hands. 

He needed this.

“Please, Cullen,” she reaffirmed her consent, her desire.

The need in her voice peaked his own excitement. He bowed his head as if in prayer, bending himself at her altar, and rolled his tongue slowly up and then down the length of her vulva. 

She gasped and shuddered, her whole body tensing dramatically every time the tip of his tongue unfurled where her lips met before he dragged it back down, parting her layers. His tongue slowly made its way deeper into her, her wetness coating both their lips.

He grasped her buttocks and shifted her forward, opening her farther. He sucked her clit--swollen, pink, exposed--rolling it carefully, gently between his lips before taking more of the ruby flesh into his mouth.

“Cullen! Oh!” Her cries were pitched and desperate as he explored and teased her. 

He wrapped his tongue around the hardened nub and worked her, still slowly, tenderly, but with increasing speed and pressure as her panting and moaning intensified.

“Please—oh!—oh, Cullen!—please… please…” Her words became muffled when her thighs clamped around his head.

Her muscles grew tighter and tighter, he knew she was close.

“Cullen! Oh, Maker… Cull! Cull! Cullen, don’t stop! Please! Please. Please don’t stop. Cullen!”

And with that, he was on his back on cold, blood-slicked stone. The sickening sounds of flesh rending, bones cracking flooded his ears. He screwed his eyes tight and curled into a ball, trying to keep himself safe from Desire writhing over him. Everyone was dead, gone. It was only him left, and he couldn’t even fight back, coward that he was. There was no hope, no chance of escape now. He must hold out against the demons. Maybe, maybe if he survived… But no…

“Cullen. Cullen, what’s wrong? Cullen! Come back to me. It’s okay. Please. Please come back to me.”

The voice was plaintive, sweet, laden with concern, and… love?

“Cullen, you’re safe. You’re at Skyhold. It’s me. Ashara. I’m here with you. We’re in my bedroom in Skyhold. There are no demons. No one can hurt you here. You’re with me. Oh, Maker, please. Please, Cullen.”

He opened his eyes and through the haze saw his Ashara kneeling just out of reach, her eyes wide and filled with tears.

“Hey… There you are… My darling, it’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

The room slowly came into view. He was on a thick wool carpet, a silk robe, scented of orange blossoms, citrus, and salt crumpled beneath him. She wasn’t a cruel vision, but the real thing. His Inquisitor, his love.

“Ashara…”

She made to reach for him but stopped, apprehension in her eyes.

“It’s okay. I…” 

He… what? How could he explain this to her?

“Kinloch?” 

His head snapped up and he stared at her for a moment. How could she tell?

“Yes…”

“Oh, Cull…” She made a sympathetic noise deep in her throat and edged closer to him. “I’m so sorry. How can I… What can I do?”

She was completely bare, crouched down on the floor beside him. The situation finally came into focus.

“Oh, Ashara, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this would happen. Are you…? I—“

She shushed him and took his hand tentatively. “Not at all, Cullen. Do not apologize to me. Just tell me how I can help you right now.”

He started to shiver violently as the sudden flood of adrenaline began to seep out of his system. A twinge of lyrium craving pinched at his temples.

She must have noticed. She pulled a blanket from the sofa. “Should we move closer to the fire? Will that help?”

He nodded wordlessly and dragged himself along the floor to follow her to the fire where she settled in the middle of a thick pelt rug. He rested his head in her lap, wrapping the blanket around himself. She stroked his hair, massaged his temples.

“Hush, my darling. It’s okay now…”


	26. Part II. Chapter 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting. Didn't get any alone time yesterday to get anything up.

He was deeply humiliated, ashamed of his reaction, involuntary though it may have been. This hadn’t happened in years, since the first time he’d been intimate with a woman after Kinloch. He’d had plenty of uneventful experiences after that. Why now?

_Because you love her. You may be healed enough to go to bed with a friend, but this is love, Rutherford._

…Too much like the images the demons had conjured up to torture him back in Kinloch.

His muscles were still painfully tense, and his head was pounding.

“You have walked beside me down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me.” The sweet voice whispering the prayer wrapped around his mind, forcing out the fear that still sought to cage him. “I have faced armies with You as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence.”

He opened his eyes and waited for them to refocus. 

“When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me and the taste of blood fills my mouth, then in the pounding of my heart I hear the glory of creation.”

Ashara? _Is she praying for me?_

“You have grieved as I have. You, who made the worlds out of nothing. We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay, comforting each other in our art. Do not grieve for me, Maker of All. Though all others may forget You, Your name is etched into my every step. I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself.”

She cradled his head in her lap, whispering the Chant in a musical voice he’d never heard from her. Her fingers were cool and reassuring against his scalp, his temples, his forehead. Tears flowed from her closed eyes and glazed her still-flushed cheeks.

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm.” He joined his voice with hers. 

She opened her eyes and gazed tenderly down at him.

“I shall endure. What You have created, no one can tear asunder,” they finished together.

“I didn’t realize you knew the Chant.” He reached up to take one of her hands.

“Only bits and pieces.” She sniffled and brushed back the tears. “My family being so devout and all. I picked up a few canticles here and there.” She offered him a smile.

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers one by one. “I’m so sorry, Ashara.”

“Hush…”

“I… I should explain.”

“Not at all, Cullen. I already told you it’s alright. I mean it. And you’ve already told me what happened. Just… Let me take care of you.”

“No, Ashara, I…” He sat up to look her more easily in the eye. “I need to tell you. There’s more.”

“Oh… Okay.” She adjusted her posture to sit up taller, apprehension mixing with the compassion in her eyes.

He took a deep breath and began, spilling the story of Uldred’s blood magic, the demons, watching his friends being tortured and killed by the abominations and twisted spirits while he sat paralyzed in that cage. His world fell apart around him, and then they turned to him. Why they waited, saved him for last, he had no idea. The cruelty of fate, some twisted version of luck. But he had survived to become the demons’ plaything. More than a decade later and he still wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been trapped there, and still had questions about what had actually happened. 

“They used her face? Oh, Cullen, that’s awful! I’m so sorry.”

He inhaled slowly and nodded. “It still haunts me… I eventually learned to separate that part of my life. Usually. But… It took me so long to… to act on my… feelings for you because of… because of what happened and how it has… affected me.”

She cupped his cheek and wiped at a tear with her thumb. 

“I still have nightmares. For the longest time, it was Solona’s face. Now, though…” He looked at her, hoping to convey his meaning without using the words.

Her lips parted in a silent “oh”. He looked away quickly.

“It must have been… too much—the way I felt… Ashara, you…” He sighed, at a loss for words. 

She shifted closer to him and brushed her lips lightly against his cheek. 

“I care about you a great deal.” The words tumbled out of him. “And…” He exhaled heavily. “I want you more than I’ve never wanted another woman in my life. But… The two feelings… together…”

“Oh,” she whispered. 

“But I’m okay now, Ashara. I promise you. I’m sorry I scared you like that.”

“Stop apologizing, my darling.” She caressed his jaw slowly. “And you didn’t scare me. I’ve… I know these… reactions. Personally.”

He blinked at her. 

“Dairsmuid. It still haunts me. Sometimes something will happen and I feel like it’s happening all over again. That’s part of why… Why things were so hard for _me_ in the... the beginning. I still have nightmares most nights. But it’s worse when the… demons of my past rise up when I’m awake…”

They sat in silence for a moment. He stared at her, absorbing her words. He knew she was still tormented by the Dairsmuid Annulment, but had had no idea she had waking nightmares like his.

She pushed his hair away from his face. 

“Your lyrium withdrawal… Does it bother you when… I mean, do the demons trigger the other symptoms?”

“If I’m awake when... when it happens, it can... make things work. And some mornings…” He shuddered. “At my worst, the… demons and the lyrium would amplify one another. It has taken work to understand which is which. I still don’t know most times, though I haven’t had as much of a problem with the lyrium in a while.”

“That’s good, right? But right now? Can I do anything?”

He shook his head. “No, not really. Just sit with me for a while? The nightmare is gone but my head… Though it’s not that bad, really,” he added, unwilling to add to her worries.

She pressed her lips to the center of his forehead and motioned for him to lie down. “I’ll be right back,” she said, wedging a pillow under his head and rising from the floor.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breath. When she returned, she had wrapped herself in her dressing gown again and was carrying a kettle and a large mug. She set the kettle on a hook hanging close to the fire and settled down beside him again.

“This might work for your headaches. It’s a Rivaini spice tea. I had Varric hunt some down for me as soon as he settled in here. It’s better than anything else I’ve ever tried. And this.“ She draped a cool, damp cloth over his eyes. “Now. Rest.”

He smiled to himself, though he felt ashamed for being the one in need of care when he should be pampering her. She was the one who was constantly risking her life to save Thedas. He was safe and sound in the keep when she was facing demons and monsters and Red Templars and Venatori—

“I can hear you worrying about something from over here, Cullen. Stop.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “And how, my lady, can you do that?”

Her quick kiss has a sweet and welcome surprise. “Because I know you, Cullen Stanton Rutherford. Good Fereldan boy who put himself through full Templar training in only five years so he could help people, stuck with that path even when his superiors turned out rotten, blamed himself for years for the wrongs of the Chantry and the evil in others because he didn’t stop them himself… You take everything onto yourself and keep trying to hide your own needs from others because you think you’re supposed to take care of everyone else before yourself. But you don’t have to take care of me, Cullen. Especially not right now. Let me take care of you.”

She punctuated her statement by lifting the cloth from his eyes. 

“Sit up,” she said gently. “Try this.” 

She thrust the warm tea into his hands. It smelled strange—like cinnamon and cloves and something else, wholly unfamiliar. He glanced at her over the mug as he raised it to his lips. If she was giving it to him it couldn’t be dangerous, at least.

His muscles slowly unknotted. As his posture came unwound, she nuzzled in closer to him. 

“Thank you,” he whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head.

She turned and smiled gently. “You’re welcome. Always.”

They kissed, slowly, tenderly, lingering with lips still close when they parted.

“No one has ever cared for me the way you have, Ashara. Not since I left home to join the Order.”

She looked at him with pity in her eyes. “Well, I guess you’ll have to get used to it from now on.” She kissed him, then pulled back too quickly. 

“Ashara?”

“We can… Is the kissing too much? We don’t have to stop spending time together altogether, do we?” There was hope and fear there.

“No! No, of course not! And…” He paused, suddenly shy. “We shouldn’t stop, um…”

She raised her eyebrows and bit her lip. “Shouldn’t stop… what?”

He shook his head and cast his eyes to the heavens. Of course she’d make him say it. “We shouldn’t stop kissing. And trying to… um…” _You’re an adult, Rutherford. You can say the blighted words._ “We shouldn’t stop, um, moving this forward. Physically, I mean.” He coughed nervously and looked away, fighting the color rising in his cheeks. “We’ll just take it slow?”

Her beautiful smile bloomed across her entire face. “Of course. As slow as you need. You just have to promise to communicate with me the best you can, and I’ll be careful and try to pay attention to your responses, and…”

He crushed her mouth with a grateful kiss. He’d never once thought to imagine anyone could ever care for him like this, be so patient with his struggles.

She laughed, a wonderful, bubbling sound, when he finally broke the kiss

“And?”

“And, um, I forget what I was going to say… But are you sure you’re okay now? You’re—“

“Please, Ashara, stop. I’m fine.” He kissed her again in demonstration.

“I’m sorry.” She flushed and glanced away. “I tend to worry…”

“You needn’t worry about me, my lady. I’ll make it through. I always have.”

He had, hadn’t he? He did…

He set the tea aside to better hold her. He felt himself again. Well, mostly. He felt like the self he had been hoping to become, complete with the woman of his dreams curled up in his arms. They stared at the fire for a while before something caught his eye.

“Is that a hallah?” The small statuette was displayed on her mantel, next to a scattering of knickknacks from her travels.

“It’s from the Winter Palace. Cole brought it back with him. I found them all over the place—they’re some kind of enchanted key to different rooms in the palace. I remember bringing a couple into the ballroom to give you—I wanted to tell you about them. And what we found behind the Empress’s bedroom door.” She giggled.

“What you found…?”

She chortled. “Oh yes. Or, _who_ we found to be more precise. One of Gaspard’s men. _Tied_ to the Empress’s _bed_. Stark naked. Except for a helmet! Apparently they’re into some… interesting things in Orlais.”

Something deep in his loins stirred at the thought of being so used by the woman before him now, but that intrigue was immediately shredded by a flash of pain. He tried to hide the wince--unsuccessfully judging by Ashara’s face. The kindness there assuaged the fear almost immediately, though.

“Cole brought one of the hallah back for me as well,” he mused. “As a reminder of you—because you made me happy and that helps with my… struggle.”

She made a mewing sound and brushed her hand along his cheekbone. “He said something like that to me when I found the statue here—‘a salve for the pain; an island in the storm. Happiness if you will allow it, but he needs this too.’ I had no idea what he meant at first, and then I remembered stopping to chat with you in the ballroom when I needed a bit of a break from the mess. And how you’ve been that since you agreed to train me and we started talking. Cole had been worried about me since that night, I guess.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and he grinned to know he was her salve and island.

“I’m so thankful Jamila finally got me to tell you, Cull…” Her voice took on a weight and tone he knew he hated for what it signaled.

“Hush, my lady.” He squeezed her tightly and kissed her face repeatedly. “All is well now.”

She inhaled deeply then let the air out slowly. “Can I tell you what happened at Adamant? When we went into the Fade?”

She hadn’t spoken of it to anyone but Cassandra, who had been there, and that only briefly. Her report had been oblique beyond the necessary facts. Clearly something had greatly disturbed her.

“You can tell me anything, my lady.”

She nodded and started in, describing the Nightmare, the demons of Fear, the heartbreaking vignettes and private moments they saw and tried to set right. 

“The Nightmare had taken part of me, Cullen. Taken from me my memories of what happened at the Conclave. And who knows what else… What if there’s still something missing? What if I’ll never be whole—I’ll never be the same person I was before…” She trailed off, staring into the fire, trembling slightly.

He wrapped himself around her, trying to hold her in and shield her from the cruelties of the world.

“But the thing that has plagued me since, that’s made it hard to sleep for days now, is the graveyard we found. There was a headstone for each of us—Hawke, Stroud, Cass, Solas, Varric… me… With our worst fears on it… I didn’t even… really know… until then…” She shuddered and he could see tears glistening in her eyes.

He wouldn’t pry, but it was eating at him to see her so upset. If he knew what she was afraid of, he could protect her from it. 

Or at least help her the way she helped him. Since first telling Ashara about his experience at Kinloch, his nightmares had been a little shorter, a little less real some times. If he could at least do that...

“How did you get your scar?” she asked, seemingly apropos of nothing.

“What?”

She twisted herself around to face him and raised her hand to caress his cheek, the gnarled scar that slashed across his upper lip. “Your scar. Was it… Kinloch?”

He shook his head and hugged her. “No. Not Kinloch. Kirkwall. My Knight-Commander. Meredith. When she tried to attack Hawke. That was when I finally stood up to her. After years of going along with her madness getting worse and worse. She practically forced Orsino—the First Enchanter at the Gallows—to turn to blood magic. And then the red lyrium and… I wouldn’t have thought it possible. But the things we saw that day… Statues come to life, attacking us there in the courtyard. It was chaos, but Hawke and her friends managed to end it. But not before Meredith nearly killed me. Hawke used a force spell that threw me out of the way just in time. Otherwise it would have been less ugly and more… well… dead.”

She pouted a bit and kissed the scar. “I don’t think it’s ugly. A bit rakish, really. Keeps you from being too perfectly pretty.” She kissed him again, this time flicking her tongue against the jagged mark.

He pulled back, a bit reluctantly. “Ah, but you’re trying to change the subject now, my lady.” He kept his voice light, but knew he had to get her to talk. What she had experienced in the Fade was bothering her. They would both sleep better if she talked.

She stood and wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around herself and made a weak grunting sound. “She got what she deserved,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Ashara Ceridwen verch Trevelyen. She got what she deserved.” She rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms. “I guess I knew… I mean, I… Seeing it like that—framed that way. My gravestone. The thing I most fear—that I deserve the blame I’ve laid upon myself and therefore deserve a cruel punishment… That everything good is only transitory while I await the inevitable return of cruelty.”

“Oh, Ashara.” The words escaped him sounding like a coo. He rose to his feet and gathered her to his chest. “Ashara, no… You are too hard on yourself, and you deserve only happiness and love. You are not to blame for Dairsmuid or anything else.”

“You don’t know,” she choked. “It’s not just Dairsmuid. My parents… my family…” 

The letter Josephine received from Ashara’s siblings… Had she somehow seen it? He was certain Josie had burned the thing, or at least hidden it so that such vile words wouldn’t reach the Inquisitor.

“My parents,” she began, trailing off almost immediately. “My mother… passed away not long after I left Ostwick. I didn’t find out about it until much later. My father and siblings, they… they blamed me.” 

She pulled away from him and wandered back to the sofa, collapsing gracelessly onto the cushions. “Because I left. Refused to marry that violent scumbag, so the family estate didn’t grow enough to split it among my brothers. Offended one of the great families of the Free Marches. Injured the frontrunner for the Grand Tourney. Disgraced the family name by running off to Rivain and becoming a no-account pirate.” She made a disdainful noise at herself.

“…Not like I could give them an heir after... Oh. I didn’t tell you about that. Cullen—Cullen I have to tell you something. You should know if we’re… If you want to take this… beyond just… I’m… I can’t… Cullen, I can never give you children.” The words tumbled from her.

She turned away from him, eyes cast down, soft sobs wracking her frame.

He crossed to the sofa and settled carefully next to her. “Ashara, look at me.” He closed his hand over her shaking shoulder. “Please?”

She shifted to let him see her tear-streaked face, but kept her eyes closed. 

“Ashara, I’m not worried about having children.“ 

Was he?

She opened her eyes without looking him in the face. He reached out to brush her curls over her shoulders.

“Ashara… Look at me.”

She inhaled deeply and looked shyly up at him.

“I know I’m a fool,” she whispered. “Such a cowardly thing to fear, and—“

“Stop, Ashara.” He made his voice firm, though still loving. “You are not a fool. You are not a coward. You are a courageous, selfless, and intelligent woman. You are not to blame for the things done to you in your past—I believe you’ve said something like that to me, didn’t you? Listen to your own words, Ashara. Those people don’t know what they’re talking about.”

She choked a sob and fell into his arms, burying her face in his chest. He stroked her back and arms gently, letting her cry out years of hurt. He found himself clenching his jaw tightly enough to crack his teeth. If he ever met her family, he would have words. 

No, not words. It would be best that he never met them. And that he be restrained if he did.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled finally, wiping tears off his chest with the sleeve of her dressing gown. I never explained my headstone in the Fade to Cass and Varric. Or Solas… And Cass knows the broad brushstrokes of my background, but not the nasty details… At least this time my tears were warranted.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead, smoothing the furrows in her brow. “You never have to make excuses or explain away your emotions, Ashara. Not with me. I hate to see you hurting, but you can always feel safe to cry with me.”

Fresh tears rose in her eyes, though she laughed. “Thank you.” She sighed and cuddled up against him.

They sat quietly, simply enjoying one another’s company after such an emotionally intense exchange.

_What would my headstone have said?_ He couldn’t help but think it as he held her. He’d lived through horrors in Kinloch and Kirkwall. Blood magic, demons, enough urban warfare to impress the Iron Bull…

_Losing her. Haven. Adamant._

He pulled her closer, memorizing the feeling of her warmth, the rise and fall of her breath. 

Maker help him, until Corypheus was defeated, he would have to face his greatest fear every waking moment.


	27. Part II. Chapter 8.

He trudged forward through the fog, struggling to make out anything about his surroundings. He must have been in Ferelden—the air just felt right, familiar—but nothing else was discernable. Suddenly, a large, flat stone blocked his path. The fog melted away, revealing a graveyard in the middle of a vast moonlit moor. 

The faint lettering on the stone before him swam in and out of focus before finally becoming clear. 

“Ashara Ceridwen verch Trevelyan.”

_What? No!_

He had to be mistaken. He had just been with her. How could she be dead? 

He squinted and leaned closer to the stone. The words refused to come into focus now. The moonlight refused to provide enough light.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his vision to cooperate. 

When he opened his eyes again, the stone was gone. All of the grave-markers were gone. But it was still a graveyard; he knew that. He was in an empty graveyard. 

His initial panic faded away, leaving a deep sense of calm. The graveyard was empty. It wasn’t supposed to be—it had never been before, and he had been here many times before—but it was empty. And that was right. All was as it should be.

He awoke hours later, refreshed and pain-free for the first time in over ten years. All was as it should be. He stared at the watery blue sky visible through the holes in the roof above him. He had dreamed of an empty graveyard.

_An empty graveyard? What?_

It made no sense in the morning light, but had seemed perfectly logical and good in his dream.

The image of her gravestone came to mind. She had seen her own gravestone in the Fade… But the one he saw listed no cause of death… no… worst fear.

That was it.

His worst fear.

Losing her.

But there was more to the dream. The other stones had disappeared. Everything else was gone. His other fears? They dwarfed in comparison to the thought of losing her now. Was that it?

Or maybe…

He tried to conjure up the old visions, but his reaction didn’t strike as deeply as it usually did. He was disturbed, even sickened by the memories, but the usual cycle of waking nightmares, intensified withdrawal symptoms, and lingering guilt didn’t start. 

What should have been comforting was slightly unsettling. What had happened? A few conversations could not have cured a lifetime of trauma. It was impossible. Whatever was happening wouldn’t last.

But he would take advantage of this lightness while it lasted.

***** ***** *****

 

No. Too curt. She would think it rude, and her patience with him was already on its last leg.

_Dear Mia,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize for my--_

For his what?

_\--failure to write to you earlier. At all._

He put the quill down and stared at the messy parchment. Over the course of an hour he’d managed to write two whole sentences. 

_Focus, Rutherford. Just tell her what needs to be said._

He massaged his temples and picked up the quill again.

_After Kinloch Circle fell, I lost much of myself, and I fear I let that harm my relationships. I didn’t know how to tell you what happened. Honestly, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, have anyone in my life._

_The Kirkwall Circle and my Knight-Commander there only made things worse. When the Gallows fell, I was left to rebuild the city. I felt abandoned and manipulated by the very Order to which I had dedicated my life._

_I see now that I hurt you, and for that I hope you can forgive me._

_I am grateful that Seeker Pentaghast was able to get word to you of my survival and decision to leave the Templars and join the Inquisition. It was a difficult decision to make. But the Order no longer had anything to offer me except perhaps more manipulation and pain. I am sure now that I made the right choice._

_Ash—_

He thoroughly blotted out the near-slip.

_Her Holiness, the Lady Inquisitor, is a fair and wise leader. She has attracted volunteers to our cause from all across Thedas, including Ferelden. A young woman from Wutherford signed up the other day. I have yet to speak to her at any length, though, for fear of stirring up bad memories of Kinloch._

_Thank you for your continued attempts at communicating with me. Though I’ve been remiss in my responses, I have appreciated the connection with good memories._

_I haven’t much more to add, only that I am still alive._

_Please give my love to the family._

_I remain_  
Your loving brother  
Cullen. 

It wasn’t much, but it was probably more than she was expecting at this point. He folded and sealed the letter and tucked it into his hip pouch. He would give it to Josephine to send out immediately.

As he stepped out onto the battlements, he realized that it was nearly time for their daily war table meeting where he’d get to see Ashara again. Though he’d departed her chambers so late the night before that it was more accurately described as morning, the thought of seeing her filled him with warmth and joy. If he was lucky, he might even get a chance to kiss her again. Or more, if there was time before she returned to the field. The way he felt this morning, he thought there was a possibility that he might even be able to finish what they’d started after dinner before his traumatized mind had seized up and flashed back to the Desire demons’ cruel games at Kinloch.

He made his way down the stairs to the castle yard to survey the soldiers training in the practice ring. The Iron Bull was demonstrating defensive techniques for urban battle, the Chargers mixing in seamlessly with the Inquisition’s troops. His army looked good. It made him proud, made him smile, to see how far his people had come. They had acquitted themselves well at Adamant and he trusted that they would only improve before they were needed for the final battle against Corypheus. 

A battle in which they must be victorious. Ashara would triumph. She had to.

“Commander, a moment if you will?”

He turned and saw the graceful figure of the Lady Vivienne approaching.

“Y-yes? How may I help you, Madame de Fer.”

She smiled becomingly and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’ve noticed lately that you and our Lady Inquisitor have grown rather… fond of one another.”

“I—No, I… There’s nothing inappropriate—that is, um…“

She laughed musically. “Nonsense, darling. I’m not here to accuse you of anything ‘inappropriate’ as you say. No, no. Rather, I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“Why, yes, of course. You’ve made our dear friend much happier in recent weeks. It has made things much easier for her with your training and support. And, well, I would be remiss if I neglected to tell you that I found your… concern with her safety at Adamant to be rather touching.”

He could feel the color rising in his cheeks.

“It all reminds me so of my dear Bastien.” She paused for a moment before going on. “Our Lady Inquisitor personally helped me in my endeavors to cure his illness. It was a kindness I feel compelled to return. I hope the gift I had sent up with your dinner last evening did in some way add to your… enjoyment of your time alone together.”

_The strawberries?_ He blushed deeper remembering the way they’d enjoyed the fruit, lying half naked before the fire. She had fed him, teased him with the little morsels of tart sweetness, before letting him bite into the tender flesh. There had been much giggling and languid, strawberry-flavored kisses.

“Um, yes… we did. Thank you.”

She smiled knowingly. “Good. Do not ever let anyone tell you that you are not good enough for Lady Ashara simply because you were not born to riches or a title. You are a noble and honorable man and more than worthy. Ignore the whispers of those who may accuse you of seeking station through her. There will be those who will doubt your intentions simply because your family has no crest. But know that I stand behind you.”

With a simple nod, she spun on her heel and left him.

Unexpected. It was comforting and strange. Vivienne spoke more frankly and freely with him than any mage he’d ever known. Even Dorian held back, hiding his brilliance with magic behind his swaggering bravado. She even spoke well of the Templars, holding the Order in higher regard than he currently did.

He made the rest of the walk to the war room without interference, giving his mind time to drift back to thoughts of the previous evening and the amazing woman he’d spent it with. The goofy smile she elicited was broadly painted across his face when he walked into the war room. 

Leliana looked up and caught his expression. “Well, aren’t we in a good mood today, Commander,” she teased.

“I… ah… I slept well last night. And the troops are coming along quite nicely in their training.”

“Really? And I had heard that you were… out rather late last night. Burning the midnight oil with the Inquisitor….” She smirked at him.

He choked and tried to play it off as a simple cough. “What? Not at all. I mean, not really. We just… We did work late. She wanted to… review her recent findings with me… Ah…” He trailed off and stared hard at the stack of reports in front of him on the war table.

Leliana giggled. “Of course.”

His head snapped up again at the sound of the door opening. Leliana giggled at that as well.

“I did not mean to startle you, Commander,” Josephine said as she made her way to the war table, sheaves of paper in her hands. “Leliana, why are you laughing?”

“The Commander is a bit… tightly wound this morning. As though he needs some… release?”

Josephine, sensing Leliana’s intended jab, cocked her eyebrows at Cullen. “Oh? Did your evening with the Inquisitor leave you with… more concerns? I know she had planned to… cover quite a lot of… information with you last night. Perhaps it was a touch… frustrating?”

The women collapsed into one another with fits of giggles.

“He is rather well-rested for having spent a late night working,” Leliana added.

“Perhaps so frustrating that you simply gave up early? Or maybe all those reports were just so boring you fell asleep in the Inquisitor’s chambers?” Josephine barely made it through her teasing remarks without giggling.

He sighed and ran his hand down his face, trying to cover the blush and growing annoyance showing there. “Can we focus on our work now?” he grumbled.

This only elicited more giggles from his colleagues.

“We do have this rather disturbing report from Baron Desjardins in the Emprise du Lion,” Josephine murmured, trying to move the conversation along. “More red lyrium…”

Cullen’s head twinged with her words. “There have also been reports of dragons,” he added reluctantly. “Attracted by the hot springs. And now I’m hearing the Elfsblood River has frozen over as well… Unnatural. I’m not sure how else we get our people into the mountains, but we should send some of our strongest. For the river to freeze as quickly as it apparently did… I suspect magic. I wouldn’t want to send Ash—the Inquisitor in without thoroughly investigating the area first.”

Leliana didn’t miss his slip-up but didn’t comment, giving him only a sly grin. She seemed too disturbed by the news to do more. “That must be some incredibly strong magic,” she mused, hovering over the map and maneuvering markers as she thought through deployment strategies. “We could send in spies to canvass the area around the quarry… I should have them look into Mistress Poulin of Sahrnia. Why hasn’t she reached out to us already?”

Josephine shook her head, pouring through the letter in her hands. “I suspect the Orlesian civil war has cut off communications with Sahrnia. From what I’ve heard, I fear much of the Emprise has been razed. We need to call on our allies in the region. Find out what they’ve heard…”

He pushed a military marker forward onto the map. “We will need forces, that is undeniable. But we must wait for the Inquisitor. She will tell us what is best… Where is she? Shouldn't she be here by now?”

This time, his words broke Leliana’s focus. “She’ll be here, Cullen, don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Josephine looked up from the letter and smirked at her friend. “We really should wait for Lady Trevelyan before making any further plans, though… And she always is such delightful company.” She winked at Cullen.

He groaned and snatched up a stack of reports, drawing another round of giggles from the others. They really were like sisters to him, complete with the annoyances sisters provided.

The war room door opened again and Ashara rushed in, her hair down and cheeks flushed as though she’d been running. “Sorry I’m late,” she began.

“Inquisitor,” he startled at the same time. “We were—“

“Eagerly awaiting your presence,” Leliana cut in. “Some of us more than others.” She leveled a laden stare at him, her arms crossed over her chest.

Ashara looked back and forth between them, confused.

“I wasn’t…” _Don’t make her think you aren’t happy to see her!_ “I mean, I was…” _Don’t play the fool in front of everyone!_ “We have work to do,” he finished in desperation, eager to get everyone’s attention off of him.

“Of course,” Leliana smirked.

“We do…” Ashara agreed, sidling up beside him at the war table.

He jumped away, lest the others think something inappropriate in their closeness, then shuffled closer again to avoid sending her the wrong message.

This was a disaster. He cast about for a way out, which Josephine— _Maker bless her_ —gave him.

“Maker’s breath, more red lyrium?” Ashara gasped when Josephine finished reading the baron’s letter. “This is bad…”

“Yes,” Josie continued. “The Elfsblood River froze over after an unseasonable chill. We’ll need brave soldiers and sturdy mounts, but it’s our only path into the mountains.” She nodded at Cullen. “Your Commander has assessed the situation and believes regardless of our longer-term plans, we will need to ensure the safety of the people there and be prepared for a potential confrontation with red Templars and possibly dragons.”

Ashara gulped. “Dragons, huh? Okay…” She looked intently at the map. “Well, I guess that settles it. Troops… But first, we should ensure we’re not sending them into anything more than they can handle. Scouts, yes?”

“I know just the person,” he spoke up. 

“Good.” She nodded sharply. “Anything else?”

“Ah, yes,” Leliana began. “We’ve received several reports from…”

He tuned out then, distracted by the warmth and sweet fragrance of the beautiful woman at his side. She didn’t help matters any, humming her responses to the questions and updates lobbied at her and deliberately (he hoped) bumping gently into him whenever she had to get a different view of the map. In addition to her hair being down, she was not dressed in her usual leathers and jackets, but a summer-weight frock in a shimmering brocade he suddenly realized was the same color as her eyes. 

He couldn’t remember much of what happened in the rest of the meeting, distracted as he was. He battled with himself, discipline and attraction dueling within him. It was his sacred duty to protect her, but all he wanted to do was enjoy her company and kiss her until their lips were too sore for more.

“Um, Commander Cullen, before you go, could I have a moment of your time?” She grabbed his arm before he could leave the war table.

Leliana’s musical laughter answered from the closing door before he could speak up.

“She must know we’ve become lovers,” Ashara murmured, pressing herself into his side.

He choked at the sound of the word, blushing as his heart sang. “She certainly doesn’t miss a thing,” he grumbled. “Now, my dear Lady, with what may I assist you?” He turned and pulled her to his chest.

She looked into his eyes, her lips parting. “Nothing. I just wanted a moment alone with you. A little more time before I must head out there again.” 

He smiled and chuckled, tilting his head down to touch his forehead to hers before kissing her gently.

If only the moment could last and duty did not call…

***** ***** *****

 

She left for the Emprise shortly after Lead Scout Harding‘s report arrived. The night before her party’s departure, they had stayed up late talking and kissing. The memory of her weight against him, the taste of her lips, the music of her happy voice offered some comfort to him as he struggled to pass the long nights waiting to hear that she’d safely arrived at the forward camp near Sahrnia. Worry for her safety made it hard to sleep, and sharpened the edge of his nightmares which had eagerly returned as soon as she rode through the gates.

_My dear Cullen,_

Her letter read.

_We have arrived safely at Sahrnia. I fear the situation here is worse than we even thought. We will need warmer tents and clothing for the soldiers immediately. I have never experienced such cold. I cannot help but imagine how much easier I might sleep with you beside me to keep me warm. The thought of your voice does warm me, though._

_I hope you are well. I cannot help but worry for you while I am away. Please take care of yourself. Eat. Try to sleep. Dorian left several sleeping draughts for you. They are in my chambers, on the desk, if you want them. I left another gift for you there as well._

At some point, she had found the time to make Ferelden toffee. He had been so touched by the gesture he’d barely eaten any, drawing out the pleasure as long as he could until she returned and he could hold her and taste her sweetness again.

_Your affections and attentions have made me feel happier than I could have expected since the world went to shite._

The coarse language combined with the romance of her admission was so like her. He smiled to himself as he reread it again and again.

_I feel as though I have been filled, though I never knew anything was missing. Now that we are apart, though, I feel the separation dearly. Cullen, my darling, the only thing that was ever missing was you._

_I look forward to again feeling complete. I will make it home to you as soon as I can._

_With all my heart,  
Your Ashara._


	28. Part II. Chapter 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. At all. Like, just. Don't.

_My Lady Inquisitor,_

_Your last letter has been a great comfort as I fear for your safety every night. I pray that you are well and safe and making progress toward our ultimate triumph over this evil._

_You have been on my mind every waking minute and in all of my dreams._

_I assure you there is nothing about you that is missing or lacking in any way. The only thing missing was your presence in my life. If my affections can assuage any pain or fear in you, my darling, I offer them freely._

_May these words give you warmth until I can again offer you my cloak and my arms._

_I remain faithfully,  
Your Commander _

He sealed the letter before he could overthink it and carefully secured it to the raven he’d borrowed from Leliana. It would reach her much more quickly that way, and he could be certain Leliana wouldn’t be able to read it as he was convinced she would if he had a runner deliver it. Writing such sentiments down was difficult enough; he would likely die of the embarrassment if anyone knew how uncharacteristically sappy he was with her. 

His message dispatched, he climbed the ladder to his shabby loft and stretched out across the bed. Skyhold was quiet at this hour of the night—most were in for the evening while the more rambunctious tavern-goers were not yet fully in their cups—and he enjoyed the ability to spend an hour or so in peace before sleep. This was when he usually read and reread Ashara’s letters or simply thought of her. 

Tonight, it was fantasy that came to him. 

They hadn’t found the time or space to explore their intimate boundaries, how far they could go before his love and Desire would again trigger his nightmares. But it was not for lack of trying. To be sure, the moments they did have together were precious and emotionally fulfilling in a way deeper than he had imagined, but tonight he ached to toe that line with her again.

His hand drifted down line of his torso, mimicking hers as she knelt over him, a lusty grin spreading across her face. Her hair was tumbling over her shoulders and down her back in unruly twists and coils, tangling around his fingers when he fisted a hand at the back of her neck to pull her in for a kiss.

She had tasted like honeyed spice tea or strawberries when they had kissed before. He licked his lips remembering how her mouth tasted when they’d snuck kisses at every chance. Then the slickness between her perfumed thighs that night in her room... She had made the most beautiful sounds when he had sucked her sensitive lips and clit into his mouth…

She straddled his head now, letting him tease her with his tongue and lips, mewling and sighing with his studied maneuvers. He’d always loved the scent, the taste of his lovers, taking every opportunity to pleasure them with his mouth. Though it had been years, it had come back to him easily that night when he knelt between her quivering thighs and…

He pulled loose the ties of leather hosen, releasing the uncomfortable pressure against his quickly hardening cock. 

Her hand slid inside his braies and wrapped around the base of his cock. She moaned in response to the evidence of his desire for her. 

“Cullen…”

He let out a choking sound as he began stroking his length. Having a bedroom of his own had given him a freedom he’d never had as a child or while serving the Order. He was able to enjoy these moments in a way he couldn’t before, allowing himself the luxury of drawn-out fantasy rather than the fervent and shameful venting of a physical need it had been in his past.

She gasped and whimpered when his thick head slid between her lips and broached her slick entrance. 

He paused his slowly pumping hand to squeeze the tip in his fist.

The tight ring of muscle stretched and pulsed around him as she sank down, taking him in farther and farther until she settled her weight onto his hips and shifted, aligning him perfectly within her.

He pulled back his foreskin, enjoying the trickle of slippery fluid rising through the tip.

She tossed her head back and began to ride him with wanton abandon, crying out clichéd encouragements as she brought herself closer to her orgasm.

He planted his heels to raise his hips slightly off the bed, the flex of muscle intensifying the approaching waves.

She grabbed at her breasts, holding them against the bounce and impact of her wild bucking. He gripped into the tender flesh of her hips, digging into the softness of her femininity hard enough to leave bruises. She liked it.

It was the perfect thing to send her over the edge. Her tide washed over him as her body’s controlled convulsions peaked and subsided. 

“Cullen, Cullen,” she sobbed, collapsing onto his chest. “Oh, Cullen. You are incredible. I love you.”

He came violently, hot jets of semen spurting onto his stomach, coating his fist, his thighs. His abdominal muscles seized and his hips twitched as a barking cry escaped him. The orgasm continued to crash against him, shattering the tension that had been building up inside him. Hot cum streamed from his swollen cock in pulses of deep pleasure. 

This was the first time in months he’d achieved release, and it was almost too much. Involuntary moans and shudders wracked him as he eventually came back down to earth.

Maker’s breath…

He wiped away what he could of the mess, almost absurd in its quantity, and rolled onto his side. He promptly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

***** ***** *****

 

_My dear Commander,_

_Your words did indeed warm me, though I missed the smell of your cloak. So many times it has offered me comfort…_

_I look forward to sitting with you again in Skyhold’s gardens, chatting away an afternoon. Or better still, spending an evening alone with you in my quarters…_

_I fear this letter must be short. My thoughts are distracted and we must head out soon to address that distraction. The Red Templars_

 

She hadn’t finished the sentence, but the reports that came shortly after filled him with fear.

Only four of them, and they were going to head into a quarry full of Red Templars.


	29. Part II. Chapter 10.

He was sitting at his desk, studying maps of the area surrounding the Sahrnia quarry. There was no way the Inquisition’s small party would be able to shut down the quarry if the Red Templars were present in any force. He only hoped they would wait for reinforcements before charging in. 

His concentration was shattered by the raucous shouts suddenly rising from the courtyard below. He shot to his feet and ran for the door. The piercing shriek of Despair greeted him as he threw open the door and charged down the stairs. The demon writhed in torment, a thickening cloud of smoke rising from it. The thing burst into eerie green flame just as he reached the ground, the ring of soldiers surrounding it jumping back from the sudden heat and light.

Almost as soon as the flames of the demon’s combustion faded, the air began to crackle and fizz with another kind of magic.

“To arms!” he ordered, crouching into the familiar pose of a Templar preparing to confront a demon, even as the bile rose in the back of his throat. Solas had assured them Skyhold’s walls held old enchantments that warded the keep against anyone or anything that would seek to harm its rightful occupants, but how could they be certain?

The crackling crescendoed and the horrible sound of space and time ripping apart drowned out the shouts of shock and fear that rose from every throat in Skyhold.

And then they were there, in the mud, their armor tattered and bloody.

Dorian was frighteningly pale, the skin drawn tight over his face. In his arms, the far paler, limp form of the Inquisitor. She was covered in blood. Her eyes were closed. Was she breathing?

“Help!” the mage croaked out before collapsing. 

The surgeon rushed forward and pressed a philter of prepared lyrium to his lips. The sickening song nearly knocked Cullen back as he found himself kneeling to scoop his beloved's body from the dust and filth. 

“What happened?” he barked, then whispered, “what happened to her? Dorian, please. Tell me what happened.” It became a plea.

“We made it,” Dorian gasped. “We’re here…” He was still exhausted, drained of his magic and, it appeared, not an insubstantial amount of blood. 

The surgeon pushed Cullen aside to better examine the Inquisitor. “She’s still alive,” she breathed, sending an audible wave of relief through the gathered crowd. “But we need to get her somewhere clean and quiet, now. Commander, can you carry her?” She nodded without breaking the stride of her orders. “Flissa, start water boiling in the Inquisitor’s chambers. Marcus, bandages. All of them. And someone watch the mage. We’ll need to speak to him as soon as he’s recovered.”

Cullen wrapped his cloak around her—to protect her from prying eyes, anything else that might hurt her—and gingerly gathered Ashara into his arms and followed, praying, cursing, fighting any visible signs of his personal distress to be once again carrying her nearly-dead body to hopeful safety.

“Stay with me, my love,” he whispered against her hair as they climbed the steps to the main hall. “You can’t leave me now. Stay with me. Your work isn’t done. We’ve still so much to do. And I cannot lose you.”

People stepped away wordlessly as they passed, all eyes on the unconscious Inquisitor.

Cullen stood silent, helpless once more, as the surgeon stripped the crumpled armor and shredded leathers from Ashara’s body. Once more he watched healers frantically try to undo the extensive damage she had sustained in her quest to save them all. 

An arrow shaft sticking from her chest was wrenched mercilessly from her flesh.

“It missed her lung. Went clean through, but… Thank the Maker!” The surgeon’s exclamation chilled him. 

Flissa and the woman who usually took care of the Inquisitor’s quarters bustled through the room carrying rags and bandages and Maker-knew-what at the surgeon’s requests. Despite the seeming successful removal of the arrow and stemming of the bleeding, the concern on the surgeon’s face refused to dissolve. She only seemed to grow flummoxed.

Dorian had arrived at some point during the frantic scene, and placed a comforting hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “Red Templars,” he murmured, some of the strength returning to his voice. “We thought we’d cleaned them all out, but there was a sniper. It had been a… bloody fight. Vivienne…” His voice began to tremble with fear and sadness now. “Vivienne had already used her Resurrection spell on her once.”

Cullen felt his heart drop through the floor. “What?”

“We wouldn’t have made it without… She probably can’t handle much more magic at this point. Her body’s ability to heal has been nearly exhausted after all that magical interference. She needs traditional medicine now. And rest. But I promise you, Cullen, she will survive.” He gulped back a sob. “She will,” he whispered.

“Mage,” the surgeon barked. “Tell me what happened. These wounds…”

“It’s the red lyrium,” Dorian responded, rushing to the surgeon’s aid. “It corrupts the flesh. Burns it with its disease. I—“ He scrambled through his various pockets and pouches before producing a vial with a few drops of a dark, viscous liquid still inside. “I have been working on an antidote for some time.”

Cullen stared at Dorian with grateful disbelief as the mage tipped the last few drops onto the wound on Ashara’s chest. The blackened flesh sizzled with the contact.

“At first I thought the corruption similar to the Blight, but it’s different somehow. I gave Dagna the recipe to make more of this based on the cleansing rune Ashara found in the desert. She’ll bring up the stronger batch as soon as she’s done mixing it up.”

A shudder wracked Ashara’s body, pulling Cullen to her side. “She’s in pain,” he cried out.

When he looked up, the others were staring at him.

Dorian cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could leave the Commander and me in privacy if you’ve stabilized our Inquisitor? We should discuss what happened, as we will need further military intervention.” He jerked his head toward the exit, indicating for the healers to leave. “I can tend to her wounds and her… pain from here. Let the others know she’s alright now. Josephine was birthing an entire litter of kittens when I got here. Thank you.”

Once they were alone, Cullen let down the veil of stoicism he had struggled to maintain. “Dorian. What happened? How did this—“

“All in due time, Commander. All in due time. I will tell you everything—and we will need a better military strategy, I wasn’t making that part up—but I am still drained. Transporting two bodies a hundred miles in mere seconds does tend to have an effect on one.” He heaved a dramatic, though earned, sigh and sank into the sofa. 

Unable to keep still for fear of breaking down, Cullen busied himself gathering up the tattered shreds of Ashara’s leathers. The arrow had passed right through her cuirass, and the metal showed signs of heavy use. The edges were scorched by the arrow’s passage, and several gouges and rends told the story of a savage battle. His hand trembled violently, making the plates clatter together like rattling swords. He dumped the armor on top of the soiled rags and in a nearby basket and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, staring at his beloved.

“Vivienne and Solas are with the others back at camp. In the Emprise. Bull was…” Dorian paused to still his voice. “Bull was also unconscious but Solas assured me he would pull through. That brute gets strength from the sight of his own blood. It’s… it’s uncivilized, and…” 

Cullen let Dorian trail off, recognizing and sympathizing with the particular brand of distress in the other man’s voice.

“We ambushed the quarry. The Red Templars had been taking workers from Sahrnia and taking them to the quarry. Kept coming back for more every day. People in the village were so afraid of the civil war and the sudden freeze that they didn’t ask too many questions. But when no one came back, well. They were taking them prisoner. We found a few caravans, liberated the living ones. Some of them were infected or already dead.

“The Red Templars were forcing the townsfolk to work the quarry. The red lyrium corrupted them, killed them. Maybe more, we don’t know. But we intend to go back.”

Go back? But of course they had to go back. She was the Inquisitor. The Inquisition was the only hope the people of Sahrnia had against the threat of the Red Templars and whatever foul magic had frozen the Elfsblood River overnight.

“We believe the Red Templars are holed up in an abandoned Elvhen ruin called Suledin Keep. We’ll need your help planning our assault.”

Cullen swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Of course…”

Ashara, still unconscious, whimpered, twisting his heart.

“Is there anything we can do? To help with the pain?”

Dorian shook his head. “Her body has been through too much already. After that rather miraculous Fade-step travel I pulled to get her back here, not to mention the amount of magic we poured into her during the battle… She needs rest and the serum Dagna should be delivering any moment. Maybe some simple healing herbs, but nothing too complicated right now.”

They sat in silence for some time, the crackling fire and the still-boiling cauldron of water the only sounds. 

“She’s cold,” Cullen whispered, noticing the faint shivering that had begun to seize her body. He found his cloak where it had discarded during the frenzy and draped it over her, tucking it tightly round her, brushing the fur away from her face. 

_You love my cloak, the way it smells. Like me, you said. Maybe it can help you heal faster… Know that I'm here. Please, love._

“I thought you might be a bit of a sentimentalist,” Dorian mused, rising from the sofa and approaching the bed. “She loves that cloak, you know. Goes on and on about how it smells like you. And you, Ser Knight, apparently smell very good.” He laughed and pat Cullen’s back companionably. 

“Breathe, Cullen. She’s going to be okay now.” 

The mage wandered away and returned with a pile of freshly boiled rags. They worked in silence, finishing the cleaning and dressing of her wounds. Even Dagna was quiet and solemn when she delivered Dorian’s anti-corruption medicine, a grimace displacing her usual sunny grin as she set the small bottles on a low table.

“We’d split into two groups of four when we ambushed the quarry. We thought we might be able to corner them, keep them from going for reinforcements. But they were… stronger than we anticipated. And the quarry had a lot of hiding places.” Dorian started into the story without prompting after applying the cleansing serum to the first of the corrupted wounds.

“Ashara was with Sera, me, and Vivienne—fire and ice, plus Sera’s eagle eye, and Ashara’s sword and shield. Vivienne’s barriers were able to catch many of the arrows if Sera didn’t spot and take out the marksmen first. Ashara concentrated on the heavy warriors. It should have worked. 

“But these… Red Templars… They’re not like… human soldiers. Or even the Templars we’ve trained against here. They have abilities and strength like you’ve never seen. The ones we fought at Haven and those we’ve run into elsewhere must have been their green recruits. We’ve not had to fight so hard before. 

“The other group almost didn’t make it to our rendezvous point, but the apostate hobo managed to patch them together well enough… 

“When we got there, we… we must have missed one… Ashara had already taken a lot of damage, had lost quite a bit of blood. So when the sniper hit her… it tore right through her… we thought she was dead. Between the three of us and every potion in our bags, we were able to keep her conscious…

“Sera took that bastard out with one shot. Right in the eye. Cole had to keep her from stomping its head in afterward…”

Dorian applied the serum to her chest and shoulder. “I’ll need you to hold her up so I can get to the back side of this.”

She stirred, moaning in pain, when he shifted her forward, leaning her against his chest as if in an embrace. “It’s alright, darling. You’re home and we’re taking care of you,” he offered her in attempted comfort, hoping she could hear.

“She will recover, Cullen.” Though still weakened by exertion, Dorian’s voice was certain. Cullen took it for what assurance he could.

“How did you get back?”

Dorian scoffed. “Now that was a bit of genius, if I do say so myself. Vivienne taught me how to Fade-step and I theorized that if done right, the magic could be used to travel great distances. I was nearly surprised to see that it worked so well… It wasn’t without incident, though. We attracted attention from the other side. I’m afraid my own… feelings were noticed.”

“The Despair demon,” Cullen guessed.

“So it did make it through? Fasta vass.”

“It made it through but it did not survive. It… disapparated almost immediately. Skyhold’s defenses hold.”

Dorian barked out his relief. “Remarkable.”

Ashara stirred as though beginning to wake.

“It looks like our lady might be rejoining us soon, Commander, though I doubt she’ll stay awake long. I will leave you two. I think it best that you be the first person she sees. And I need to update the girls on her progress. There’s more of the cleansing salve here. You’ll need to reapply it in a few hours. And again after you bathe her.”

Cullen watched her. She would have looked almost peaceful, as though she’d fallen asleep, if not for the shocking paleness and shallow, rapid breathing.

“I wish I could have been there. To protect you,” he whispered, smoothing her hair. She was so cold to the touch. She would be, cold as it was in the Emprise and her heart so weak. 

_I can at least keep her warm._

He added wood to the fire and dug out as many blankets and pelts as he could find. He removed his armor carefully and as quietly as he could and climbed onto the bed next to her, pulling her into his arms and burying her in layers of warmth. She would wake feeling warm and protected at least.


	30. Part II. Chapter 11.

He was growing uncomfortably warm when she finally opened her eyes.

“Cull—En—“ The sound was pitiful, weak, gasping.

“Hush, hush, love. Don’t try to talk. I’m here. You’re safe now.”

He shifted to look in her eyes. They were dull, as though she was struggling to focus on him.

“Don’t move. I’ll get you some water. You need to restore your strength.” He spoke through the entire process of fetching a cup of honeyed water and returning to her side. “Fluids will help. You’re probably dehydrated. And we need to get your blood volume back up. I’ve seen this before. I know what to do. I’ll take care of you while you recover. I’ll be right here by your side.”

When he returned, her eyes were closed again, but she made a pathetic sound when he sat down. 

“I’m going to prop you up just a little so you can drink.” His voice was softer now, the frantic recitation having calmed his own nerves.

She was like a ragdoll in his arms, letting him move her around and tip the water slowly down her throat. 

“More?”

“Mm.”

He sat beside her for hours, refilling the cup and feeding her more whenever she indicated she was awake. He only took his eyes from her when he was forced to, to bring more water to her.

“You have not left her side.” Leliana slinked across the room, silent despite her mail armor.

“No.” He clasped Ashara’s cold hand in demonstration and in defense.

“I will not ask you to. But I must know what you would like your soldiers to do. We must still see to their training. I can have Ser Barris lead them through drills…”

“Yes,” he answered quickly. It was the perfect idea. “I want them all trained in the Templar forms. They must know the tactics and style so they are all prepared to face the Red Templars in the field. Our soldiers will need to be able to fight those Blighted monsters and win.”

“Of course.” She showed no outward signs of distress to see the Inquisitor so near death’s door, though Cullen was sure she was at least shaken by the events. She was tougher even than his sister Mia, but he knew that like Mia, she felt things deeply. 

“Have we received word yet from the rest of the party?”

“Scout Harding sent a raven. Everyone made it back to camp. All worse for wear. They will be setting out for Skyhold in the morning.

“I have brought broth for the Inquisitor. It will help her recover. When she’s a little stronger, I’ll bring the special mixture I would make Solona. It always made her feel better.” He was not mistaken in seeing a sad smile on the spy’s face as she drifted toward the stairs.

“I will return to my work now. There is much to be done.”

Solona... Leliana seemed a bit lost without her at times. The sick feeling he had had the first time Leliana had mentioned her lover had been replaced by happiness that his colleague and his former crush were happy and in love now that he had Ashara in his life. The affection and fascination he’d had for Solona seemed a pale shadow now in comparison to what he had found.

_I won’t lose that now._

He gazed down at her broken form. It would be days before she’d be strong enough to keep her eyes open for more than a few seconds, a week or more before she could talk. Maker knew how long it would be before she could fight again. She would feel lost, helpless, after everything she’d done. The people would still rely on her to save them. Their enemies would exploit the Inquisition’s weakness if they knew she was down. 

They wouldn’t be able to take the hiatus they needed.

He paced in front of the fire, his mind scanning through the possible ways to keep up appearances, keep the Inquisition on everyone’s minds while she convalesced. As soon as her favored fighters were back on their feet, he would recommend they be sent out to fight as they would if she were with them. Not many had met the Inquisitor. Any tales of her appearance could not be so specific that they couldn’t include one of their stronger women warriors among the party when the Inquisitor was expected to be part of an expedition. Of course, he would need her permission before implementing such a plan… How long did they have before their absence was noted?

He grabbed a quill and a scroll of parchment from her desk and began scribbling plans. The Red Templars certainly knew of their retreat from the Emprise, so they would have to continue elsewhere. There was still plenty to clean up in the Western Approach. There were reports of new activities on the Storm Coast. And this Fairbanks character who wanted to meet with her… They could send a forward party into the Emerald Graves to begin exploration. Ashara should be back on her feet in time…

“I brought fresh bandages,” a hushed Antivan accent told him from the top of the stairs. “Is she… How is she?”

Josephine edged nervously into the room, reddened eyes darting back and forth between Cullen and the unconscious form on the bed.

He stood and took the pile of boiled linens from Josephine. “Thank you,” he murmured. “She is very weak, but as long as we can keep her wounds from becoming infected…” It was the first time he’d entertained the possibility. He gulped. “She’ll be alright in time.”

Josie nodded and tried to smile for him. “The surgeon said we should change her bandages again this evening to… keep that from happening.” She finally looked fully upon Ashara and blanched. “She… She looks so…” Her hand darted up to her mouth. 

“I know…” he whispered, returning to his place at her side. “Will you help me?”

She nodded and set to work, following his lead as he worked. It was probably too soon to worry about replacing the wrappings, but he feared letting the wounds stick to the bandages, resulting in more bleeding if they changed them later.

“She will be okay, Lady Josephine. I promise you.” He put on another layer of brave face for her. “She is stronger than anyone I have ever known. The healers and the surgeon have done everything that had to be done. Her body just needs to rebuild itself now. It’s just a matter of time.”

She patted his arm lightly. “I trust you to take good care of her, Commander. And…” She cleared her throat nervously. “And I’ll… Make it known that… you will be working from the Inquisitor’s quarters until further notice. You are, after all, the most qualified of her inner circle to watch over a soldier in her condition.”

Something in her voice irked him. “Is there something wrong, Lady Josephine?”

“Oh! No, no, not at all. It’s simply that… well. Some of the soldiers have been talking for some time, and… it will not go… unnoticed that you do not leave her side.”

He opened his mouth, intending to protest, but she cut him off immediately.

“I have no intention of asking you to. And you _are_ the most... appropriate of us to be here. The surgeon has the troops and the rest of Skyhold to see to, and the Inquisitor’s assistants and messengers will need to continue their usual duties. I do not wish to make your privates lives any more public than they already are by mere necessity.”

“I… thank you, Josephine.”

She smiled indulgently. “Lady Ashara did, after all, request that I stop trying to arrange advantageous liaisons for the two of you.” A mischievous giggle escaped between her lips. “After the party, she was more than clear about that. Though I cannot promise an end to the requests from Orlais…”

He sighed and rubbed his neck. “Josephine, I will not…”

She giggled again and stood to leave. “I cannot control the… appetites of the court, my good ser knight.

“I will have a tray sent up for you soon. As well as your things--unless you’d prefer to get them yourself.”

He was touched by her sensitivity. She was good at her job, but this spoke to a more personal bond building between them. “I would appreciate that; thank you. I… do not want to leave her for even a moment.”

“Of course.” And she was gone in a rustle of taffeta and manners.

** ** **

Two days passed. The guards were under strict orders that only the surgeon or the Inquisitor’s inner circle—Dorian, Jamila, Leliana, and Josephine—were to be allowed into the Inquisitor’s chambers while she recovered. Cullen should be left to his work and current duty of supervising the Inquisitor’s convalescence and not be disturbed by anyone.

He paced restlessly between tending to Ashara and seeing to his duties as her Commander. She should be getting stronger by now, showing some sign of healing, but she’d opened her eyes only a few times and only for a couple of seconds at a time before sinking back into the depths. She wasn’t getting any worse, and he supposed he should be grateful for that, but waiting for her to get better was killing him.

He hadn’t slept for more than an hour or two at a time. It was always while sitting straight up in a chair—at the desk, in front of the fire, once while sitting beside her on the edge of the bed—and always interrupted by vivid nightmares.

The Kinloch demons took her face or his own demons took her life every time he closed his eyes. It was enough to make him almost glad he wasn’t getting any sleep.

He knew he must look utterly ragged. He should address that. She should open her eyes and see her lover there, a dashing knight in Inquisition regalia, watching over her and keeping her safe. Instead she would find a bedraggled and tormented former Templar living out his worst fear. 

When he caught an accidental glimpse of himself in the mirror he looked like the man who Cassandra had found in Kirkwall—dark circles under bloodshot eyes sunk into a pale and gaunt face. His hair was coming undone from running his hands through it so often with frustration and anxiety. Josephine had had a change of clothes and men’s toiletries sent up along with his maps and diaries, but he hadn’t bothered to turn away from his tasks long enough to scrape away the stubble that was quickly turning into a thick, prematurely graying auburn beard. His hands shook too much to trust himself with the razor at this point anyway.

He pushed aside the reports he couldn’t focus on and rose from his chair to stretch his legs. For the first time, he noticed the practice dummies lined up in the small loft above the privy. His sword arm twitched to burn off some angst in that familiar way. Maybe he could physically exhaust himself enough to catch a decent nap on the sofa.

She must have had specialized dummies made for her different fighting styles. One was covered in leather and showed none of the signs of a blade borne heavily by the others. Something to practice hand-to-hand combat, perhaps?

He dragged the heavy thing out onto the west balcony and unloaded his fear and anger onto it. 

He should have been there. He should have taught her more about Templar battle techniques. He shouldn’t have given over her training to Ser Chancer. He should have ensured she knew how to block incoming projectiles. They should have learned more about the Red Templars before fighting them. She should have been wearing better armor. She shouldn’t have tried to ambush the quarry with so few people. The red lyrium never should have made it out of Kirkwall. The Templars should never have allowed the red stuff into the supply. The Chantry shouldn’t have hooked them on the poison and broken them down so that they were dependent on it and on corrupt leadership that would lead good-hearted men and women into the Void for the chance of doing what they thought was right but was only serving the destructive ends of a power-mad, deranged magister darkspawn…

The knuckles of his right fist split, smearing blood across the dummy and leaving streaks of the bright red on his cuffs. His lungs burned with the cold mountain air as he heaved great breaths. Sweat stung his eyes, It felt good. He felt alive again.

And he needed a bath.

He thanked the Maker for Dwarven ingenuity. They’d used fire runes to heat bath water in the Circle, but being able to simply stop the tub and climb into a steaming bath without having to lug bucket after bucket was a blessing. He would have to ask Dagna how the enchantment worked someday. Maybe if they survived all of this and were able to return to normal life, he could arrange to have something like it set up in his own home.

Maybe he could go back to Honnleath, buy a bit of land, build a little place for himself. …And Ashara?

_What are you thinking? Even if she wants to stay with you after you get through this, why would she want to go live in a wooden hovel in the sticks?_

He silenced the voice and the line of thinking. Neither would lead anywhere productive or good. He had work to do and an ailing Inquisitor to nurse back to health.

He dragged himself out of the tub and dried himself quickly before pulling on the fresh clothing. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed the change. The shirt and braies he pulled on were the whisper-soft linens Ashara had gifted him, adding to the pleasure. He smiled to himself, thinking of that night, as he returned to her side. 

Her breathing had begun to even out, though it was evident her body struggled to get enough oxygen. Her color was still disturbingly pale, her skin cold to the touch.

“Come on, love… Keep fighting…”

He stroked her hair and watched her face for any sign that she might be waking. It had been hours since he’d last been able to spoon sips of broth to her.

“I’m sure two days of nothing but broth must have you hungry, Ashara. But I can’t give you more until you wake up and are strong enough to eat something solid. And you won’t be able to get back to saving the world until you’re back to full health. I try to not be impatient, but after you finish saving the world…” The thoughts bubbled up inside him, eager to recommend themselves to her. A little farm near Honnleath was only the beginning…

He leaned down and kissed her dry lips, lingering there in foolish hope that maybe things would work out like a fairy tale. 

…But he was no prince. Who was he kidding?

He sat up and headed toward the fireplace to add another log and make sure the broth would be warm when she did awaken. He watched the stray fibers on the end of the log catch and curl, carrying the flames into the new fuel. 

What she saw in him, he doubted he’d ever know. Sometimes the kind things she said almost tricked him into thinking that he might not be a failure, might be worthy of her affections. But he knew better. He had failed at being a Templar, and now he had failed at protecting…

_Stop it! She likes you, and she’s not stupid or crazy. That’s enough for now. You’re supposed to be nursing her back to health, not nursing your own self-loathing. Now back to it._

He ran his hand through the curls on the back of his head and let out a long breath before tearing off a hunk of bread from the loaf Leliana or Dorian or Josephine must have dropped off for him at some point. He gnawed on the crust as he crossed the room. He needed to relax and she had Fereldan ale in her personal stores.

When he left the small side room, beer in one hand, bread in the other, her eyes were open.

“Cull…”

He nearly dropped the mug, barely getting it to a table before rushing to her.

“I’m here, Ashara. I’m here.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes finding and focusing on his.

“I’m here, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

He wanted to kiss her, sweep her into his arms, but he knew she was too fragile still. He settled for kissing her hand and stroking her hair.

She responded with a sad whimper.

“What do you need, love? Are you in pain? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

She nodded weakly. “Yes.”

“All of them?”

A bit of sparkle returned to her eyes. “Mm.”

“Alright. Don’t move a muscle, my lady. I’ll get everything you need.”

He scurried about the room, suddenly forgetting where everything was. Her eyes were closed again when he had finally gathered broth, water, and elfroot potions.

“Ashara? Are you…?”

“Mm.” 

The small sound did wonders. 

“Let’s start with something for the pain, yes?”

“Mm.”

He tipped a tiny flask of concentrated elfroot juice into her mouth. “There you are. That should help…”

Her eyelids fluttered and she swallowed and exhaled roughly.

“Alright, love?”

She responded with a weak nod then opened her eyes again.

“Better,” she whispered.

His new favorite word. He couldn’t help but smile. “Good. Now, then. Hungry?”

She nodded again and he set to feeding her the steaming broth, a familiar action made infinitely more enjoyable by her current state of lucidity. She drank the broth as eagerly as a nearly dead woman could.

“In a few days, we should be able to give you something a little more substantial.”

She hummed a response.

“I was so afraid you would never wake up,” he confessed, setting the empty bowl aside. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive once again.”

She smiled then tried to raise her hand to reach for him, instantly grimacing and dropping the hand again when the pain hit her.

He hissed in sympathy. “Careful, love. You could reopen the wound.”

She whimpered.

“Hush, love.” He placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “Let me get you some of that Rivaini spice tea. And some more elfroot. You’ve sent me plenty of the stuff over these last months. Seems only fitting that I should be fetching the weeds for you now.” 

Her returning smile was a little stronger than the last. 

They both slept well that night, her hand in his, he sitting upright, legs outstretched on the bed beside her. When the demons raised their heads, she took up arms and struck them down with him. After the battle, he swept her into his arms and made love to her under a bright Fereldan moon. For that moment, all was as well as he could hope.


	31. Part II. Chapter 12.

He awoke slightly groggy, rising slowly, reluctantly from the deep sleep. He was still sitting up in her bed. She lay beside him, her head turned slightly toward him, almost cuddled up against his side. Her sleep was total, as if she were dead to this world.

The image yanked him abruptly back into full awareness. They had almost lost her, but she had once again pulled through. The shame at the sudden realization that he’d awoken hard from his erotic dream was simultaneously quelling and stimulating. He squirmed away, careful not to jostle or awaken her, and tiptoed to the privy to see to his morning ablutions and shake off his exhausted haze.

She hadn’t moved before he returned. Her pulse was steady, still thready and too fast, but seemingly stronger.

He adjusted the quilts and pillows around her, tucking stray locks of dirty curls away from her face, letting his fingers linger on his favorite hollows and ridges of her face. She was too thin now, so drained of blood, and underfed for he knew not how long.

When she was fully awake, he would see to it that she ate all of her favorite foods in one sitting. In the Bannorn of Ferelden, a man could take pride in how well-fed his wife was…

_His wife…_

He gazed at her face in the shadowy early light. It was not the first time the association between Ashara and marriage had sent jolts of warmth through him. He suspected it wouldn’t be the last—that the more time he spent with her, the more he would desire such a thing…

With a sigh, and massaging the base of his neck, he dismissed the too-pleasant thought and set to his morning’s work. Breakfast would be delivered soon, and though their nearest friends were well aware of the more intimate nature of the Inquisitor and Commander’s relationship, it would not do to let that fact get out.

He was deep into the Inquisitor’s copy of _Qun, Gurns, and Steel_ when a rap on the door announced the arrival of breakfast. When he looked up, Jamila had set a tray down and was beginning to arrange an armful of blooming jasmine in a large Orlesian vase.

“Her favorite,” she explained. “I was hoping maybe the smell would cheer her a little, somehow make her heal and wake up faster. I’m getting impatient.” She offered him a worried grin.

“She’ll wake up for good soon,” he said as he made his way across the room. “I’m getting impatient as well.” He tried to meet her grin with one of his own. “Arissa is off today?”

“Nah. Just wanted to see my girl myself. And check in on you.” She handed him a steaming cup of coffee. “Went with the strong stuff for you this morning.”

He accepted the cup with a nod and plucked a sausage roll from the tray. 

“So how are you hanging in, Cullen?”

He considered the question, taking stock internally and judging the situation. Jamila had warmed to him quickly, appreciating his pragmatic approach to everything except Ashara, and his distaste for the formalities of court. He could probably trust her with an honest answer if not a fully forthcoming one.

“I… have been better. But she was awake and aware for a good while last night. That was a relief.”

Jamila chuckled almost silently. “Yes, I’ve heard she’s getting stronger. But I’m asking about you, Cullen. ‘Shara would be rather upset with me if I didn’t take care of her Commander while she was knocked out.”

Her smirk was utterly lacking in malice, belied by the warmth and genuine concern in her eyes. “But I know you’re a private man. I won’t pressure you to share more than you want. Just know that she would be worried for you and would want you to take care of yourself.”

He nodded, blushing, chagrinned by his persistent inability to respond properly to human empathy.

“Have you left this room at all?” Her voice was textured with amusement and worry, a tone he’s heard plenty from Varric. 

“Ah… No. I haven’t…” He was blushing again. He turned away, ruffling the curls on the back of his head.

“Cullen… She’ll be okay if you leave her side for a few minutes. Why don’t you go check on the troops, get some exercise or something. It’s not good for you to keep cooped up in here.”

He let her words roll around in his head for a while. He was sure his lieutenants were doing a fine job of keeping the soldiers on their toes. He knew he could trust Ser Barris to get them accustomed to defending against the specialized style of Templar combat, but he really shouldn’t leave such an important job entirely to his subordinates.

“Go. See to your soldiers, stretch your legs. I’ll take care of our girl while you’re away. I promise I won’t let anything happen to her.”

He bit back on the instinct to run through the proper schedule of care—when to change bandages, how to administer drops of elfroot extract, and the best way to ensure there would be warm broth whenever she awoke. Jamila had been given the same lecture by the surgeon they all had. She had stopped by more frequently than any of the others. She had known Ashara longer than any of them and would know what to do. And he wouldn’t be gone long enough to have to worry about anything major. Instead, he made a vague gesture of acquiescence, thanks, and farewell, and ducked out to see how things were going in Skyhold without him.

**** ****

All in all, Barris had done an impressive job with the training. Most of the soldiers Cullen sparred with were familiar enough with basic form that they could block a half-hearted charge. A few were even able to get through his guard. Some of them might have made good Templars were the Order worth joining.

After reviewing the basic forms with the newer recruits a few times, he couldn’t fight it any longer and had to return to Ashara. She might have woken up by now.

He should have been ashamed of how easily he was distracted from his duty. But wasn’t protecting and taking care of her his duty as well?

He bathed in a hurry, set his hair back in place, and rushed back to her room. His heart nearly stopped when he arrived. The air was thick with unfamiliar magic and reeked of bitter herbs. Dorian and the surgeon were hunched over Ashara’s body, murmuring to one another indistinctly.

“Breathe, Cullen. She’s fine.” Jamila rested a hand on his arm. “They think they’ve figured something out with some salves and… something with magic. Dorian has been studying some ancient Qunari medical texts apparently and thinks it will help her get back on her feet faster.”

He nodded dumbly as relief melted through him.

“You look like you’re going to collapse, Cullen! Come on. Sit down.” She dragged him to the sofa. 

“This seems so familiar… After the… Right… at the Circle back home, when Aly… when Ashara was burned…” She paused for a few slow breaths. “A seer who had been away found her and patched her up enough to get to safety… I have no idea what happened to the old woman…” She fell quiet for a while, her face like she was reliving the painful memory. “She came to me—Ashara did, afterwards. I was her only friend left in Dairsmuid. The Chantry had killed everyone else…” Another long pause. “We weren’t that close yet. It was Aly’s… death… that bonded us. She was always a good time, but after we lost him…”

He reached out to pat her hand, trying in his awkward way to offer her some comfort. She accepted the gesture with a sad smile.

“She was a mess. I always suspected she felt more for Aly than he did for her. He always treated her well—I would have killed the little bastard otherwise; we were raised right—and I suspect that was new for her…” She sighed and pulled her knees up to her chin, hugging her legs. “Between the burns and the trauma and the heartache, she was just completely broken for weeks. She wouldn’t let any other healers near her when she was awake. Said she deserved the pain, and the scars.” She shook her head. “You know, a proper mage could probably wipe away some of those scars even now if she’d let them… She’s stubborn, that one… Whenever she’d manage to cry herself out and fall asleep, we’d sneak in a healer to work on the burns. They were ghastly. Probably would have gotten infected and killed her otherwise.”

He watched her face as a series of emotions played upon her features. She seemed conflicted about something.

“I know we did the right thing then, bringing in the healer. She wouldn’t be alive today otherwise. But using magic on someone without their consent—against their will… It seems so wrong, so invasive…”

He understood the conflict now, but felt no such ambivalence about the particular instance himself. “You probably saved all of Thedas in that, Jamila.”

She looked at him, shocked.

“I admit to… some… ambivalence about using magic on someone like that, but… Saving her meant she was there, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And again at Haven. Halamshiral. Adamant.” He meant it. He wanted to crush the woman to his chest in gratitude for the questionably ethical decision she had made nearly two years ago.

“I guess I’m the real hero of this story then, huh?” she joked drily, watching the healers work.

He appreciated the humor. It had been days since anyone had attempted to relieve any of the tension that had been growing in Skyhold since the Inquisitor had returned less a third of her blood.

Suddenly, he felt his stomach flip and a vise grip his temples. The sick, metallic smell of lyrium and its dizzying song filled the room. He must have visibly blanched.

“Cullen? Commander Cullen? Are you okay?” Jamila’s worried, wide eyes swam into focus inches from him when he opened his eyes. “Lyrium?” She ventured. 

He nodded, pinching at the knot growing at the base of his neck.

“How long have you been off it?”

_How does she know? Did Ashara tell her?_ “Wh—what?”

“My brother was a Templar. I spent a lot of time near the Circle. And well before the Chantry slaughtered everyone, they tried to force the Templars into getting tough on the mages by choking off the lyrium supply.”

“That’s…”

“Ghastly. Yeah.” She clenched her jaw. “A couple of the more senior soldiers cracked. Lyrium madness is no joke. Things got ugly. But then some of them stayed off. They had been sharing their rations with the addicted ones and then just stopped taking it. I’ve seen the withdrawal. You must have been off for a while, yeah?”

He nodded. The episode was passing.

“Do the others know?”

“Only Ashara. And Cassandra.”

She smiled gently as she shifted back to her former position on the couch. “Your secret is safe with me,” she whispered, just as Dorian stood from Ashara’s bed.

The mage was mopping at his brow with a handkerchief, a shaky grip on an empty lyrium philter. 

“How is she?” Jamila asked.

The surgeon sat up from where she’d been bent over Ashara’s body. “She’s getting stronger. Whatever you did, Tevinter, it seems to have worked.”

Cullen’s heart was flooded with relief and warmth. He could feel a welcome unclenching of muscles he hadn’t realized were tense. The last of the fading withdrawal symptoms melted away.

“I’ll be useless for a few days, but our lovely Inquisitor should be awake soon.”

“How did you—“ He realized he probably seemed like an overeager mabari pup pouncing after a ball and cleared his throat. “Um. What did you do?”

Dorian grinned at him. “A combination of a rather disgusting salve—I will only make that for her—and a kind of conjuration spell involving some rather unusual synth--Magic,” he cut himself off. “I’ve been reading while I recovered, and found notes of an experiment that held promise. It wasn’t as strong as I had hoped, but it appears to have worked. Her body is exhausted from rebuilding her blood supply so quickly—the salve made that less difficult on her, but nonetheless. Take care of her now?” He slapped Cullen’s shoulder weakly and nodded to Jamila. “The salve can be removed in a few hours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am… in need of some rest.”

Dorian and the surgeon left, both clearly worn out by their efforts.

“I should see to some errands myself now that you’re back.” Jamila stood. “That salve smelled like death when Dorian opened it up. Had to make him open the windows. She’ll probably needs to be cleaned up a little.” She caught his eye and put her hand on his shoulder. “Take care of our girl, Cullen.”

**** **** ****

It was so late it might have been better described as early. He had finally allowed himself some rest and dozed beside her. He had worked his way through some lingering paperwork, studied a treatise on urban warfare Iron Bull had recommended to him, and chewed his way through his dinner. She’d woken a couple of times, enough to take some broth and water, but was still sickly pale and too weak to speak more than a pathetic squawk of his name when she was awake. 

A single messenger had stopped in to let him know that the Inquisitor’s forward party had made its way to the foothills and would be arriving at the keep within a day. Good news, but it sent a twinge through him. 

He realized that he was hoping to spend some time alone with her before the rest of her friends returned to worry over her. The quiet intimacy of watching over her would be lost. Though that time would be more enjoyable if she were awake and hadn’t just cheated death. Again.

A quiet sound broke the silence, startling him to alertness.

“Cull…” She stirred, a slight whimper escaping between her lips.

He turned toward her, propping himself up with his elbow. “I’m here, love. It’s alright now.”

“Cull…” Another whimper, filled with fear and pain. “Cullen!”

His heart wrenched. He was more than familiar with the inescapable terror of trauma nightmares and needed to save her, hold her close, let her know she was safe, yet he knew that she needed to sleep, needed to heal. If he tried to wake her, would he hinder the healing process?

He laid a hand across her brow, trying to soothe her. Her skin was still too cold to the touch. He wanted even more to pull her to his chest, hold her, keep her warm. 

She seemed to calm, but whimpered again. Her eyes opened.

“Cullen…” Her voice was still hoarse and weak.

“I’m here, love, I’m here.”

The corners of her mouth turned up. “You’re… here…”

“I’m here.” He grinned down at her. “Can I get you some water? Broth?”

She nodded. “So… happy you’re… here.”

He fetched water, broth, and spice tea, staying away from her only as long as necessary. More than once, she’d fallen back to sleep before he could return to her side, but she seemed even more alert now.

“Thank you,” she murmured, trying to reach a shaky hand for a mug.

“Here—“ He sat the mugs on the nightstand and bent to help her sit up. “Let me prop you up first.”

She grinned wider. “Thank you.”

He gripped her hands and pressed a mug into them, excited to see her moving about and trying to feed herself. He kept his hands around hers as she slowly guided the mug to her lips. He stared openly, watching her sip hungrily between breaths. His esteem for Dorian grew further—the man had saved Ashara again.

After a few more sips, her hands trembled. She was still so weak. It hurt to witness.

“Thank you.” She lifted her eyes from the steaming mug as they lowered it to her lap. “Have you been here the whole time?”

He nodded, a blush rising on his cheeks.

Her eyes lit up, sparking up the familiar, delirious flutter in his chest.

“Thank you, Cullen.”

_You needn’t thank me. I’d stay beside your side for eternity if I had to. I can only dream that you might let me stand at your side for the rest of my life, that I might see you again at the Maker’s side when we cross the Veil._

“How long have I been… out?” 

“A few days. Dorian brought you back here almost immediately. He and the surgeon who joined up after… after Haven… they…”

_Haven._ He closed his eyes, lowering his head.

“And you… You changed my bandages. You… protected me while I… slept. Thank you. Ser Knight.”

He looked up. Her eyes shimmered in the firelight. Maker, she was beautiful.

“Ashara…” He reached up to caress her face, trailing his thumb slowly along her cheekbone.

Her eyes closed and the wide smile returned to her lips. 

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I do every time… Every time we go out.”

He couldn’t respond. 

“Will you stay?”

“Stay? Of course, Ashara. I would never leave you.”

She bit her lip and gazed at him, her expression unreadable.

Why was she looking at him like that? His insecurity seized him. Had his words been too… too much? Andraste preserve him. He’d been moping around her this whole time. He’s kissed her that time like it would wake her. He’d been calling her “love” every time she woke up.

“So you’ll… stay even though I’m… awake now?” There was a smile in her voice. “Good… I was… nervous you’d leave now that… I’m going to be safe.”

A gasping laugh of relief escaped him, to be met by a sweet giggle of her own. ”I was… um… planning to stay here until you were… until you asked me to… um…” 

_Just stop talking, Rutherford._

He blushed scarlet. Thank the Maker for the darkness.

“You would… be here a long time then,” she teased. 

“Oh?” His boldness was bubbling up along with the excitement of flirtation. “Would you have me at your side so long, my lady?”

“Forever, my knight,” she whispered with force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this feels like it's slowing down. I got stuck a couple months ago and have been struggling to renew my productivity and keep the story interesting. Life happens, I guess. I feel like I've gotten the story more on track, but it's still a bit slow in coming. I promise to try harder!


	32. Part II. Chapter 13.

Oh, Maker, how he wanted to kiss her then.

“Forever and ever.” She giggled. “But at least until I fall asleep.”

Her silly joke cheered him immeasurably. Even with the playful dismissal of the implied vow. She was awake, sitting up, talking, joking. 

“I will do that, my lady.” He took the mug from her hands and replaced it with another. “And I will get as much nutrition into you as possible until then. Drink.”

She smiled over the mug, which he wouldn’t let her lower more than a few inches from her face, and took a long sip of the contents. “My hero.”

The tease sent a dart straight through his chest. He wanted to be her hero—keep her safe, keep her warm, protect her from the evils of the world. It set him off-balance, but: “Whenever you need me, Ashara. I will be there.”

Her tired eyes were wet. “Oh, Cull… Please… I…” She sniffled.

Maker, what had he done wrong?

“Ashara, I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t—“

“No, no,” she whispered. “It’s just… You are… too much sometimes. You…”

_Maker take me. I’m pushing things too fast._ He flushed furiously, struggled to keep his heart beating. 

“I feel like a fairy tale princess… I love it, but… It just makes me cry.” She chuckled weakly through another sniffle. “So romantic. I didn’t think I’d ever… find this.”

_This again. Stop doubting yourself, Rutherford._

He still couldn’t talk, tied up now between his angst and the desire to sweep her into his arms. He settled for another caress of her cheek.

“No tears, love. You can’t spare the water right now, dehydrated as you are.”

How in the Fade did he manage to get that joke out? But it was well received, drawing a soft giggle from her.

“Kiss me?”

He paused, lowering his eyes to her lips—still plump and inviting though bloodless and dry.

“Please, Cullen? I… really missed you. I was afraid we would—“

He didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence, and pressed his lips tenderly to hers to cut it off. They lingered, foreheads and noses touching, for a long, sweet moment before he took the mug from her so that he could wrap his hands around hers, holding them there in her lap. Tears flowed freely now down Ashara’s sunken cheeks.

“I can’t do this without you,” she whispered, barely audible.

His heart and mind were blown open. “And you won’t have to, Ashara. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her lips again. “We will make it through this. We _will_ defeat Corypheus.” He said it with more conviction than he had yet held, knowing it to be true for that moment.

“I was so afraid,” she croaked.

He kissed her again, gently, sweetly. “I am sorry that I was not there, Ashara. I wish I had been there to protect you.”

She shook her head as hard as she could. “No. No, no, you shouldn’t have been there. It’s not your fault or… And I don’t want you to… feel bad or blame yourself… If you were there, the Red Templars, the red lyrium… no. Cullen, if you went out there something could happen… to you, and I couldn’t… It’s bad enough with one of us… out there. The odds are too high if we were both…” Her voice grew thinner as she went on.

“Shhh,” he tried to calm her, bringing his hand to the back of her head to steady her, comfort her. “Don’t worry yourself, love. You’re safe, and I’m right here. No lyrium. No threats.”

_She’s right… The Red Templars and their poisonous lyrium—extra poisonous lyrium… You wouldn’t last a day out there, Rutherford. And she knows that. She knows your weaknesses, man._

_But she still wants you with her._

_…And called you her hero…_

Her trembling brought him back from his thoughts. He pulled back just enough to study her face with his adoring eyes. Still pale, weak, vulnerable. So different from the woman he knew her to be.

“What do you need, love? How can I help you?”

She looked at him a while, her breathing still thin and faster than it should be. “Cullen, you don’t… you don’t have to _do_ anything. Just… Just stay here with me tonight?”

He kissed her lips again. They seemed to be softer each time he touched them.

“Of course, my lady.”

She smiled against his mouth before kissing him back, tenderly, with a sigh. She leaned into him, pressing closer as though asking for more.

He shifted to lean over her body, his arms on either side of her as though to hold her, and answered her request with a slow, tender kiss. He was flooded with the growing familiarity and thrill of the nearness and sensation of her. 

Her breathing changed quickly, becoming shaky and even shallower. He had to pull away.

“Ashara? Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Mm hm. Just… Just a little… light… headed…” A bit of gasped laughter followed.

He cursed himself for rushing her then felt a completely inappropriate surge of pride—just a kiss got her heart rate up high enough to make her lightheaded. At least in her current state.

“Oh. Um… I’m… sorry. That was…”

She giggled breathlessly again. “No you’re not.” She bit her lip, eyes narrowed. “And you shouldn’t be. You’re really… good… at that.”

He blushed, averting his eyes and ruffling the curls on the back of his head. “I, ah… I should get you some more broth. Have to, um… get your strength up.”

He heard her giggling again behind him as he walked to the hearth. He bit his own lip with a smile. She was back, she wanted him around, and she thought he was a good kisser.

Maker, he felt like a Chantry boy.

Though her energy level was visibly waning, she seemed stronger as she polished off another full mug of broth and more water. It heartened him, chased off some of the fear that never seemed to fully leave his heart.

“Cullen?”

“Hm? What is it, love?”

“That smell… Is that… me?” She wrinkled her nose and frowned. “It smells like…” She sniffed. “Like dead things. Ugh.”

He cleared his throat nervously, unsure of how exactly to answer her question, settling with: “I’m afraid it is you. It’s some kind of salve Dorian made to help your body rebuild your blood supply. Without it, you probably would not… be awake just yet.” 

It occurred to him that without Dorian’s repeated uses of magic, she would have died several times over by now. The thing he had spent his entire life fearing, and a recent dozen years loathing, was the thing keeping his love alive. Had protected and healed her so many times it seemed.

“I didn’t realize magic could stink so much!” She wheezed a laugh. “Please say I can wash this smell off?”

“Of course,” he responded. “Dorian said it only has to stay on a few hours. It’s been long enough.”

“So I can do it now?”

“Oh, um. Yes.” Should he fetch someone to bathe her? It would hardly be appropriate for him to do it. What if someone walked in while he was sponging off her bare limbs?

“Maybe I can take a real bath?” The hint of hope in her weak voice tugged at him. It wasn’t wise to have her out of bed just yet, but… 

He could remember the indignity of lying powerless in a healing ward bed while the world barreled ahead around him, everyone tiptoeing around him, afraid to say anything for fear of triggering his waking nightmares. He’d felt less than human, held apart from everyone and everything he’d once identified as his life—a sentiment he’d since come to realize was one the Chantry seemed to actively try to reproduce in many. Something the Inquisition should not reproduce. He could at least ease that ugliness from her current experience.

He offered her a hand and a slight bow. “My lady?”

She smiled gratefully and slipped her shaky hand into his.

“Oh, fuck!” she hissed, her legs collapsing beneath her the moment she tried to stand.

“Careful… Careful, now. Slowly, slowly.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. She felt tiny, frail. “All right?”

“Fine, fine. I’m just… a little… weak.” She paused, leaning into his balancing embrace.

“You did lose a lot of blood, love. It’s going to take time.”

She nodded grimly, sinking back down to the bed. “Maybe no bath just yet. But I really need to do something about the smell. And what…” She plucked at her awkward neckline. “What am I wearing?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “It’s one of Dorian’s more modest robes. Worn backward to keep you warm and covered but allow the healers to do their work.” 

“Ah. Not the most flattering look, but it works, I guess. My usual leathers are probably a bit more… difficult to work with.” She tried to play off her disappointment with her weakness, flashing a smile, but he could see the impatience behind her eyes. “Not to mention rather… bloodied and torn…”

He cleared his throat and squeezed her hands. In fact, her leathers had been burned.

“I’ll need new armor… I should talk to Dagna.”

He nodded and pat her hand. “Several of us have already spoken with her. She’s hard at work as we speak.”

She blessed him with another smile. “You are all too good to me…”

“Or we just don’t want the Inquisitor dying before she fixes everything,” he quipped before he could think better of it. “Not that that’s the only—ah…” 

_Shit._ The image of her on the dock at Haven, drunk and weeping over the pressure they’d put on her, the dismissal of her personhood she’d experienced as the Herald… His own social and emotional clumsiness toward her.

She pressed his hand with her waning strength. “Cullen, it’s alright. You’re just… not great with words.”

He scoffed at the understatement. 

“You can make it up to me by helping me stink less, maybe?” Her voice was blessedly gentle. “Maybe a bit of a sponge bath? And more comfortable… flattering… clothes?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

Something about the physical transformation forced upon her by her injuries removed the sexual tension he’d expected. It wasn’t her he washed. Her skin was cold and dull, lacking the fiery glow he saw in his mind when he thought of her training with him or the incredible evening they’d shared so recently and too long ago. Her muscles sagged from her bones, making her powerful frame stand out, gaunt despite the strength of the woman inside. 

“You’ll be on your feet again soon,” he offered gently, at least half for his own assurance.

“Thanks, Cull. I hate feeling useless.”

“I know, Ashara. But now that you’re awake, I’m sure our Lady Ambassador will have plenty to keep you busy while you recuperate. We can even move the war council meetings up here until you’re strong enough to get downstairs,” he teased as he returned to her bedside from the privy with a warm Fereldan-style woolen chemise and a pair of the intricately knit Ander stockings from her wardrobe in hand.

“Oh, gods,” she moaned. “Don’t be so cruel. Josie is going to have me writing letters to every noble in Thedas… So many unanswered missives from our trip to the Winter Palace—she’s going to make me personally respond to every single one, isn’t she? Including all of the marriage proposals…”

“Marriage--!” He knew Ashara had attracted such attentions at Halamshiral, but hadn’t Josephine settled most of those concerns at that wretched party? “The Marquis…”

She giggled. “Oh, the question of my hand has been deftly silenced for now. Josephine has been working some kind of magic behind all of our backs, convincing the various houses of whatever would best suit our interests without compromising my autonomy… I suspect she’ll have me answering to some of that. But _you_ , Cullen, have gotten quite a lot of a fan mail. Half of western Thedas wants to wed you or bed you! I’m almost a bit jealous!”

He choked and spluttered. “I told Josephine to burn those blighted letters! Did Leliana take them?”

She laughed at his indignation. “Oh, Josie burned the first batch, but there has been a steady stream of love coming from Orlais for our handsome Fereldan commander.” She squeezed his hand. “But don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

“My hero,” he deadpanned. 

Her sleepy eyes twinkled in the dawning light. She responded with far more sweetness and sincerity. “My Commander…”

It brought a smile to his face. “Can I get you anything before you fall back to sleep, love?”

The soft upturn at the corner of her mouth twitched higher. “Just stay here? Keep talking to me? That way, I’m sure to have sweet dreams…”

He felt the blush warming his cheeks as his words left him entirely just when they became so crucial.

“Um… Well… What would you have me say, my lady?”

“Tell me a story?” she whispered. 

“A story?”

“Something from your childhood.”

“My… childhood?”

“Mm.” She nodded slowly. “Something from… growing up in Ferelden? Like… a fairy tale or a… a local legend or something.”

“Well…” He concentrated on rolling a stocking up her leg, scanning feverishly through his memory. Fairy tales? Legends? As a boy, he’d loved stories of chivalry and high adventure. At one point, his mother stopped telling him bedtime stories—said he got too excited and wouldn’t sleep—he would beg his father and his older sister to tell him tales of dragons and kings. Even now, he managed to sneak a novel from time to time.

The mention of the Orlesian nobles…

“Do you know the story of General Not-Sheritan?”

“General Wh—oh! I believe that one was in a book we found in Val Royeaux. About the Fereldan servant woman?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “She was close with her master—something Orlesians never understood. Fereldan banns and lords are different from Orlesians. Not to say they aren’t without their… problems, but most at least view the men and women who serve them as people worthy of respect. And it is not unheard of for a servant to become friends with their master’s family members, even rising to some level of nobility themselves…”

He focused on bringing the second stocking over her knee smoothly.

“Ferelden is a much more egalitarian place. I understood the Free Marches as somewhat similar, even more… democratic might be the word.”

She laughed. “Yes. Some in the Marches would have you believe there are no… similarities between our nobility and… and that of Orlais, but… Then behind our ornately carved doors, we are just as bad.”

He looked up to catch her mouth twist wryly. 

“Be that as it may, you seem to have escaped such… grandiosity. It is an honor to serve beneath you, my lady.”

It sounded like she was trying not to laugh. He moved on quickly, vaguely aware of the potential double entendre—not offended at all by the thought.

“In this case, the story goes, this Fereldan lord and his servant were visiting Orlais…”

She drifted off before Not-Sheritan led the Orlesian’s men to victory, a tiny smile keeping her face from looking like a death mask. He watched over her a while, fully aware of the potential parallels between Not-Sheritan and the Inquisition. The cooperation of the Orlesian and Fereldan armies might someday be explained away as a façade maintaining a convenient misplacement of authority. It seemed that only the possibility that Ashara could be the chosen of the Prophet Andraste—or at least the belief among much of the peasantry and a critical mass of the nobility—was the only thing keeping the Chantry and its supporters from marching on Skyhold and ending the Inquisition’s work. If their mission seemed any less critical, if certain death seemed any less imminent, who knew what might happen.

He stood slowly, careful not to disturb his sleeping love, and moved toward the dying fire to feed it. What would happen to the Inquisition after they defeated Corypheus and restored order to Thedas? What would happen to _them_?

Life without her… now, after he’d gotten a glimpse of a life in which love was possible. What would he even do with himself? Without the Inquisition, he had nothing now. He had forsaken his sacred vows to the Chantry. 

Perhaps he could serve the new Divine if she were favorably inclined toward this insurrection. 

As unlikely as that might be. 

But would he want to serve the Chantry after everything he’d been put through? He wasn’t even sure he believed in their version of Andraste and the Maker after everything Ashara and her companions had found and reported from the field.

But he had to do something. He couldn’t just live on the Inquisition’s goodwill and reputation forever. And he wanted Ashara to be part of whatever life he made for himself. Yet he had no way of making any kind of life for them. He didn’t want her to have to fight and risk her life and wellbeing in order to survive…

She whimpered. He turned from his contemplation to watch over her as she twitched and squirmed in her sleep. A nightmare.

She awoke with a start and a frightened gasp just as he returned to her side. Her eyes panned the room, darted back and forth until they settled, wide and wild, on his own.

“It’s alright, love. You’re alright. Everything is alright.” He reached tentatively for her hand. “You’re in Skyhold. I’m right here. It was just a dream.”

They were the words he often repeated to himself upon similarly awakening.

“Nothing can harm you here, love.” He gripped her hand more firmly now, massaging her palm with his thumb. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She took a deep breath, her trembling made audible in the sound. “I was… I was back in the Emprise. There were demons, and…” She trailed off, relaxing back into the pillows. “I’m sorry, Cull. Were you asleep?” She glanced around the room as though seeking evidence that he’d slept anywhere in the room.

“No, no. I…” 

She looked up at him, sleepiness fogging over the clarity of panic in her eyes. “Nightmares?”

He nodded. “With you… injured… I haven’t had much peace of mind.”

The sound she made in turn was simultaneously warming and heart-breaking. “I don’t mean to… make things worse for you, Cull. I’m sorry.”

“No! Don’t apologize, my lady. There’s always Kinloch, Kirkwall, Haven. Adamant. A million things in between to torment my sleep. You are a far sweeter subject to focus on.” He hoped it didn’t sound as cheesy as he thought.

She smiled and closed her eyes. “You’re a sweet-talker, Cullen Rutherford.”

Never in his life had he been so accused. The usual comment on his words was focused on the lack of them—“Sullen Cullen” some of the newer recruits at Kirkwall had called him. “Dreamer”, his sister had said. Always off somewhere else in his head. The world as it was was never good enough for him, she’d accused.

Her eyes were open again, though her voice grew groggy. “How do you deal with the nightmares? You must get some sleep some times.”

He smiled grimly. He did get some sleep now—much more and of better quality since Ashara had turned her attentions upon him—but for more than a dozen years, it was a far different story.

“I… I’ve tried a lot of things… For the longest time, I prayed or recited the Chant in my mind.” He looked away, studying the edge of the rug. The words of the Prophet should have brought him comfort, but often only made things worse. Words against magic reminded him of the Circle. Mentions of Maleficar called to mind a very specific face, the voice of Uldred as he brought the corruption down upon the Circle… And then, after Meredith’s betrayal, thinking of anything related to the Chantry just made things worse. 

“But other than one or two verses, that doesn't really work…”

She touched his arm. “Cull?”

His words must come out gruffer than he’d have preferred. “Now, though, I have a hard time finding comfort in the words of the Chantry…” He tried to cover it up and move along. “Sometimes, I get up and train until I grow so exhausted I have to sleep. Like your running…”

“Well, I can’t do that now,” she attempted to joke.

“No. Though perhaps sitting upright might be enough exercise to do it at this point,” he bandied, eager for a smile to distract his mind from the dark enclave it had stumbled into.

He was so rewarded. “Ha, ha. Though you’re probably right. So, what have you been doing lately? Until now, you’d seemed… better rested than before.”

“Lately, well…” He twisted his hands to fight the urge to rub the back of his neck. _Honesty, man._ “I’ve thought of you, my lady.”

“Me?”

“Ah…” He lost the fight, aggressively massaging his neck. “Well, yes. You. Your letters. I read them. Or think about our conversations. The way you look when you sit in your throne.” She giggled with that. He’d found that she enjoyed being teased about that massive chair and her noble upbringing, that she collapsed in crass laughter when he’d referred to her as “Your Highness”—something about Isabela. 

“Your laugh,” he continued. “The way you smile when you ride back into the gates from a campaign in the field. The way you smell like summer flowers and sunshine. The way the little curls around your face absolutely refuse to stay in your braids. It gives you a halo when the light hits it just right.” He smiled now, remembering the glowing aura around her beautiful face when they last kissed on the battlements before she'd left for the Emprise.

“Anything else?” Her voice was thick with sleep and something else.

His blush betrayed his desire to avoid answering that question. Thank the Maker it was still dark. “Um…”

When he finally looked back down at her, she was grinning a bit lasciviously. 

“Well… Yes. Once or twice I… Thought about the evening after I returned from Adamant… And how… Um. How I’d like to, um. To—ah—do… those… things. Again?” He immediately looked away again.

_You really are a sweet-talker, Rutherford. Really smooth…_

“I might have thought about that night a few times myself.”

He snapped back to attention. “Really?” He sounded like a mabari pup realizing the potential for a scrap of bacon.

“Mm. Yes. How it might have ended differently…”

He had to bite his lip, struggling to hold back his natural reaction. 

“I’ve thought of a few… alternate endings…”

Maker’s breath, this was the most pleasant frustration. She was flirting with him when they both knew they couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t help but take the bait.

“Alternate endings, my lady? How might our evening have ended if I hadn’t… had my reaction?”

“Well, all of them end up with you in my bed with me. Not like this, though. Less clothes.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “My lady?”

“Mm… Less clothes and… and more of that tongue.” She let out a burst of laughter. “Andraste’s ass, Cullen, where did you get that tongue!”

He blushed deeper. It was something he’d learned in the barracks in Ferelden, if she really wanted to know. The rules against fraternization amongst the Templars weren’t as strictly enforced there—they were stranded in the middle of a lake and didn’t make it into Redcliffe more than once or twice a year—and close quarters may have reduced the overall opportunity to act on carnal urges, but it also meant everyone learned everything everyone else learned about sex. 

“It’s not a real question, Cull, you don’t have to answer. But your reaction makes me curious about it…”

He passed his embarrassment off with a laugh. “That’s… ah… a story for another time, love. Promise.”

She hummed a little giggle, sinking happily closer to sleep.

“I have other things to show you as well. You’ll have to rest and heal so I can.”


	33. Part II. Chapter 14.

She drifted back to sleep with a grin on her lips, and he stepped out onto the balcony, desperate for the cold air to shake off the fog of lust. He wanted badly to climb into the bed with her. Not in a sexual way, necessarily, but to hold her, feel her body pressed against his, safe and warm. To simply join her in the intimacy of sleep. 

But no. He had work to do. And she needed to rest and heal. 

And regardless of their blossoming relationship, she was still the Inquisitor. Any possibility that subordinate members of the Inquisition might see the two of them in any kind of compromised position was unacceptable. With sunrise fast approaching, the risk of being seen being so familiar with her in such an obviously non-platonic way was too great. He’d fallen asleep on her bed once already—sitting upright, on top of the covers—and had been lucky no one had seen and made anything of it. 

He sighed and stared upward at the lightening pre-dawn sky. 

_Maker’s breath._

He could feel his mind closing in on him as the old self-doubt and his romantic desires began to duel. 

When this was over… If they managed to both make it out alive… What would happen? What could he even do? He was good for only one thing. He was a soldier, a tactician, a general. How would he operate as a civilian? 

He remembered so little of the knowledge his father had tried to pass to him before finally agreeing to let him join the Templars. Farming was probably out of the question… 

He was tired of violence and pain, making the life of a mercenary unattractive—and how would Ashara figure in to such a lifestyle? She had been so rocked by all the death and destruction she’d seen and dealt since joining the Inquisition. She probably wouldn’t want to continue sleeping in tents and dealing with the worst humanity could offer. Would either of them be able to stomach that kind of amoral thinking?

_You haven’t even asked her if she would even_ want _to stay with you after all of this, Rutherford._

He let his head fall forward, suddenly aware of the weariness settled deep in his bones. How long had it been since he’d had a good night’s rest?

The blast of a cornet shocked him wide awake again. The signal that the Inquisitor’s party had returned. Sleep would wait. He could get some more answers from Cassandra and Bull. 

Cassandra arrived at the lower entrance to the Inquisitor’s chambers within mere minutes.

“Inquisitor?” She called up as she took the steps two at a time.

He looked up just as she crested the stairs. “She just fell asleep. She will need more time to recover, but she’s alright.”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Cassandra sighed.

“Let’s let her rest. She needs to recover.” He hoped she’d take the hint and leave them.

Of course she didn’t.

“I was hoping you and I could speak,” she responded, seamlessly changing the subject.

“Speak? About what?”

“I… believe I have located the rest of the Seekers.” She didn’t elucidate, giving rise to a hundred questions.

“The Seekers? I wasn’t aware you were searching for them. They weren’t with the Templars at Therinfal…”

“Correct.” The petite warrior nodded and turned sharply to pace two short lines in front of him. “There is more. Please, find me in the practice yard this afternoon. I’d like to rest a while, but I believe we have only a short time to act.”

“I… alright. I’ll speak with you then.” He nodded a quick dismissal, still unsure of what had just transpired, and watched her leave.

_Odd._

In truth, he hadn’t given much thought to the question of the missing Seekers. Really, anything to do with the Chantry was more a headache than the thought was worth. As far as he was concerned, the Seekers were at least partially to blame for the war between the rebel mages and Templars. He had far more important things to worry about right now than the petty squabbles of the Chantry elite over who control a Thedas their failures of leadership had left vulnerable to attack. An attack against which he was thanklessly defending. Again.

He clenched his fists reflexively.

If he thought about it too long, it seemed a position the Chantry was determined to keep him in. As a Templar, he’d been used as a sword and shield for twenty years, kept blind, dumb, and ignorant but for what they wanted him to see, say, and know. Naïve and eager to serve the Order he’d revered his whole life, he’d swallowed every word they fed him along with the lyrium that might still take his mind. He’d survived torture only to be sent to war under a Knight-Commander only too willing to exploit his fear.

After the apostate blowing up the Kirkwall chantry, Meredith going insane, Orsino turning into an abomination, and Meredith turning into a red lyrium statue, the Chantry had all but abandoned Kirkwall, leaving him as the highest ranking officer outside of the city guard. Until Cassandra and Leliana sidled into town—well after the fighting ended and over two years of unanswered requests for assistance from Val Royeaux—the only Chantry support he’d received was a band of wise-arsed but hard-working Marcher Templars dispatched from Starkhaven.

That whole episode still gave him headaches.

_Thank the Maker for Aveline Vallen-Hendyr._

If not for her, Kirkwall would have gotten even worse. Together they’d managed to keep things from completely going to the Void. She didn’t hesitate to lift her blade even after Hawke disappeared from the city, leading her guardsmen side-by-side with him while the city tried to tear itself apart. When he suggested they find a way to protect the Circle mages until the remaining loyal Templars rebuilt the Gallows, she’d immediately found a way to hide them away. The two of them coordinated closely on the relief and reconstruction efforts. She had been the only person in Kirkwall he’d bothered saying goodbye to.

He’d asked her to join him and the Starkhaven Knight-Captain, but she’d remained behind. A good thing, that, he knew in retrospect. Though Aveline was as devout an Andrastrian as the widow of a Templar should be, her anger and frustration with the Chantry had made his own look tame. Had she come away to the Inquisition, Chancellor Roderick wouldn’t have survived long enough to get them all out of Haven.

By the time Cassandra arrived in Kirkwall, Eye of the Seeker emblazoned across her chest, he had nearly convinced himself that the entire institution had simply abandoned Thedas like the Maker it was meant to serve. That unblinking sigil seemed like a beacon of some kind when he first saw it. That it would lead him to this, he never would have guessed.

 

***** ***** *****

He found her that afternoon in the practice yards, looking entirely as though she had not recently faced down death with the Inquisitor and ridden across half of Orlais at break-neck speed.

“Ah. Commander. I’m glad you came.” She felled a practice dummy with a disturbingly strong swing considering the exhaustion she must have felt. “Come. I want to show you something.”

She led him above the foundry to an alcove where a map of southeast Thedas was splayed over a table, covered in books, candle ends, and stray markers. She waved her hand over the map with a sigh. “I kept staring at this, but I couldn’t get any closer.”

“Keep banging your head against the problem, Cass. It’ll go away eventually.” He offered her a smirk, hoping the tease would relax the clearly tense soldier, remind her of the filial friendship the two had cultivated over their long journey to Haven and longer nights discussing the Inquisition of old, the ways the Chantry was failing in the face of the war, and sharing stories from their lives. Her stubbornness was the stuff of legend--and might be credited to some degree for getting him through his lyrium withdrawal.

She chuckled. “I’m predictable, I know. I thought I’d never find them on my own.”

He cocked his head at her in invitation to continue speaking.

“We’ve seen so many Red Templars since the assault on Haven. Perhaps all that is left of the Order. What we haven’t seen is Lord Seeker Lucius.” She fixed her intense eyes on him.

She was right. They hadn’t seen or heard anything out of the Seekers, even when they had visited Therinfal. A defected Seeker and Templar should have at least received a sternly worded letter at some point for taking up the standard of the Inquisition.

“Indeed,” she continued, “I’ve seen no hint of any Seekers amongst the Red Templars. Or anywhere. I have a growing suspicion Corypheus has imprisoned them.”

“Why imprisoned? He could just as easily have killed them,” he replied.

“Not easily.” Something sparked in her eyes with the smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “But, yes,” she nodded. “They may be dead.

“But the Seekers began this war against the mages. They could not have simply vanished. There had to be a trail we can follow, and I believe I may have discovered it.”

He shook his head skeptically. “They could have ended up just like the Red Templars.”

“Seekers do not use lyrium, Cullen,” she corrected.

Of course. “We’re pretty sure Corypheus gained control of the Templars by corrupting the lyrium they were already taking. Even easier once they broke from the Chantry and had their supply lines disrupted.”

“Yes,” she concluded. “To do the same to a Seeker, you’d have to force the lyrium upon them. That may be what happened, but it couldn’t have begun that way. We were missing a piece of the puzzle until now.”

“You’ve found them?”

“I believe so.” Her voice took on the softened tone he’d only ever heard when she spoke of her brother or Regalyan. “I left the Order, Cullen. But I can never abandon them.”

He studied her face closely for a beat as she re-centered herself.

“What Leliana’s people were able to find, combined with the rumors passed along through Josephine’s network indicate that the Seekers headed one at a time into Ferelden. A Bann Loren, who had not been heard from in months, eventually gave us some information that sent Leliana’s men to investigate Caer Oswin. They, too, went silent.” She indicated a marker positioned just east of Lake Calenhad. “These events are connected. They must be. It seems this is where the missing Seekers will be found.”

He nodded.

“I was hoping the Inquisitor could join me to investigate, but I believe we are running out of time, and she still needs to rest. If anyone else were to join me, I would like it to be you.”

“Me?”

She nodded. “As a former Templar, you are the most appropriate companion for this… mission. You know more about the Order than the others, and I trust you. And because there is no lyrium remaining in your blood, you are… safe from their Templar-controlling abilities.”

“You mean they can’t set my blood on fire.”

“…Yes.”

He thought about it. He didn’t want to leave Ashara now, while she was still vulnerable and healing. But he hadn’t left the keep in ages. And it was true that he was best suited to support her on this adventure. She would need another strong warrior at her side, and only a Templar—or former Templar—would fully understand the mission. Rylen was still stationed at Griffon Wing, and Barris hadn’t been a full Templar long enough to be able to fight a Seeker if it came down to it. Not to mention he still took lyrium, which would make him vulnerable.

“Do you expect the trip will take long? I don’t want to be away for longer than necessary.” He caught the look developing on her face. “Reports from Orlais have been troubling, and I don’t want to miss anything important.”

“I do not anticipate being away longer than a fortnight. Though you should know that I suspect there will be some fighting. These disappearances do not bode well. That is also why I am asking you, and not someone else.” 

Something inside him seemed to be unfurling at the thought of battle. He’d barely engaged at Adamant, and was worried he was going to get too rusty to be any good in true combat.

“I should discuss this with Ash—with the Inquisitor. I won’t leave Skyhold without her permission, of course.”

“Of course.” She led him back out to the practice yard. “We can leave in the morning.”

***** ***** *****

The ride down the mountain had gotten smoother and faster every time he left the castle, and the village in the valley grew larger. What had been a footpath wearily trampled into the snow was now a paved road through the pass, stones representing the many homes of the Inquisition’s followers and pilgrims creating a stippled, multi-color effect at the base of the mountain where the young village began. 

Herald’s Valley had been little more than a military encampment with a handful of timber shacks the last time he’d passed through. Now several wattle and daub buildings stood amongst the ramshackle homes, and at least two stone foundations were being laid. A lively marketplace took center stage, a diverse and motley crowd of elves, humans, and dwarves mingling and shouting to one another.

“She has inspired many,” Cassandra explained as they passed the tavern—The Glowing Hand—whose sign was a woman in Inquisition armor, green hand raised above her wild-haired head in triumph. “Though she insists she is not divine, they worship her as though she truly is the Herald of Andraste.”

“I doubt she approves,” he responded, remembering her despondency with the title and its baggage. She was growing into her Inquisitor title at least.

“She does not like it,” the Seeker conceded. “But I believe Josephine encourages it to some extent. It’s good for our coffers, she says.”

He clenched his jaw and hurried his mount along, eager to get away from the eyes drawn to his Commander’s cloak and mantle. “Didn’t Ash—the Inquisitor ask her not to?”

Though she was slightly behind him now, he could hear the smug grin in her voice. “Ashara did. And Josephine says she has ceased referring to Ashara as the Herald. But once these things begin…”

“Mm,” he grunted his understanding.

They passed through the rest of the village without incident. 

“Do you think she is holy?” Cassandra spoke after a few minutes of silence.

He wasn’t sure how to answer. The thought that a living, and very-much mortal, woman might be the living embodiment of the holy Andraste seemed absurd. Though less so than it had a year ago. Anything seemed possible these days. And she certainly seemed miraculous. Not just the Fade-controlling hand and her ability to unite a warring Orlesian court, but the comfort and light she’d brought into his own life would have seemed the stuff of fantasy before she came along.

“Cullen?”

He inhaled slowly and scratched at his nape. “I… She has said repeatedly that she is not the Herald of Andraste. And we know now that it was the Divine, not Andraste, who delivered her from the Fade.”

“I was there. But that is not what I asked. What do _you_ believe?”

He sighed. “Does it matter what I believe?”

“I would think it does,” she retorted. “You’ve become lovers. I know you, Cullen. I trust your intentions are not merely to pass time with her until this is all over.”

Her bluntness caught him off-guard, though he should have expected this to come up. She had seen this coming and had found him alone in her chambers. And he knew she was a hopeless romantic…

“I believe she is blessed,” he admitted. It was the first time he had articulated it aloud, and it almost shocked him to hear it in his own voice. “She is a remarkable woman. Strong, principled, courageous. With or without the Maker’s hand or Andraste’s sword guiding her…”

“She is not Andrastrian.”

“She says she does not know what she believes.”

“Then you’ve discussed it.” Cassandra nodded approvingly. “Good. It is important to know these things about one another. And Ashara’s circumstances—her family... She struggles to believe. She cannot see the Chantry and the Chant as separate things. She sees no value in faith.”

He couldn’t help but think on his own battles and his attempts to find comfort in the faith to which he’d dedicated his life. The beautiful simplicity of trusting in something all-encompassing and powerful guiding their lives had given him succor at times, but salted his wounds at others. “To come through what she has… To still stand strong and to… have the soft heart she does. That takes something like faith. Or something more… She may not believe in the same Chant that has guided you or me, but… There is something greater than what we see that drives her. Something within her that inspires.”

Perhaps this was what they said of Andraste. Perhaps Ashara’s name would be sung like that in ages to come.

He shook off the disturbing thought and found Cassandra studying him closely, a slow smile creeping to her lips.

“You love her.”

His breath froze in his chest for a moment. “It is true.”

The smile fully realized. “I trust that you will not let it interfere with the performance of your duties. But I hope you are prepared for the possibility that things will not end well—“

“Please. Let’s not speak of this more.” He cut her off and spurred his mount. “We should focus on getting to the castle.” 

He wouldn’t sleep well that night.


	34. Part II. Chapter 15.

The sun was setting and his mind began to wander. It was their second day in the saddle since turning back toward home. If the weather and the horses held up, they’d be back in Skyhold in only another day. He would see Ashara again—and she should be farther along in her recovery then. It would warm his heart and melt the icicle that was forming around his spine. It couldn’t come a moment too soon.

He’d only ever heard rumors of the Order of Fiery Promise, and had never thought the stories worth crediting. That they not only continued to exist, but were in league with Corypheus and had managed to corrupt the Lord Seeker was somehow unsurprising, given the world they seemed to live in now.

The battle had been intense, frenzied, but quick enough. Neither of them sustained anything more serious than a little bruising. Their discovery of the Promisors’ involvement in the slaughter of much of her Order should have been the more serious injury, yet Cassandra continued to hold her peace through the whole endeavor, even when she opened her apprentice Daniel’s throat in a brutal act of mercy after he revealed to them that the Lord Seeker had willingly given the Templars over to a demon and was seeking the end of the world. 

Lord Seeker Lucius had clearly gone insane and fought like a man possessed. Cullen rubbed at the knots forming in his neck. It had been too long since he’d been in a real combat situation. His muscles remembered the violent motions of battle, but even with his rigorous training weren’t used to the level of exertion required to put down a well-matched foe. After fighting off several waves of Promisors and Red Templars. After several sleepless nights.

Cassandra was all but silent now, clearly distracted by the Lord Seeker’s maniacal speech. She had shoved the massive Seeker tome into her saddlebag and had not looked at it yet. Probably for the better. Lucius’s betrayal of the Seekers of Truth, and in turn the Templars, grated at his nerves. Cassandra was far more invested in the Chantry and in the Seekers than he was the Templars or any of it at this point. He could guess the degree of conspiracies the book would tell and the devastating effect it would have on her.

He cast a sympathetic look her way. Her back was straight, her head held high, jaw clenched tight enough to crack her teeth. Years of royal upbringing and Seeker discipline hid her distress and broadcast it clearly at the same time. 

This was something more than his own severing from the Templars. This was sudden. She’d had no chance to prepare herself. There’d been no slow disenchantment. And she was so invested in the Order and the Chantry. The Chantry—the Chant and Divine Justinia—was the major shaping force of her life. It was the reason she’d started the Inquisition. It was her touchstone and guiding force. And now it was gone—torn to pieces and scattered about her feet.

“We should stop soon,” she spoke up. “The horses will need a rest before we head up the mountain. There’s an Inquisition scout camp nearby, though off our path. If we ride another hour or so, however, we can stay at the inn in Herald’s Valley.”

“Let’s ride on. The inn will do just fine.” It meant he’d be that much closer to Ashara. His sore muscles ached for her warmth. Maybe being an hour’s ride closer to her would relieve some of that.

By the time they arrived in the ramshackle village, torches were being lit and the air outside the inn was thick with the smell of dinner. His stomach grumbled in anticipation at the smell of roasting meat after a week of field rations. His muscles, in response, made their own displeasure known, all protesting their over-use at once. The warmth and light of the inn’s hearth was nearly as lovely as Ashara’s embrace.

Nearly.

She wasn’t far from his thoughts as he devoured generous servings of the inn’s stew and ale—both Fereldan-style and filling. Would she like such hearty, rustic food? She’d happily wolfed down shepherd’s pie that night…

“You’re smiling.” Cassandra interrupted herself. Her voice cut through the daydream like her sword had cut down Lucius.

He startled at the sound. “Am I?”

“You’re thinking of Ashara, aren’t you?”

“I…” He cleared his throat nervously. He was being insensitive toward his friend. “I’m sorry. You were saying…?”

She shook her head. “I cannot say that I blame you. Love has that effect. I was saying nothing important. But now that I have your attention…” 

She placed the heavy book she’d taken with them from Caer Oswin onto the table. “This tome has passed from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker, since the time of the Old Inquisition.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “And now it falls to me.” She gazed at the battered leather cover.

She had been reading the book every change she got, and had resumed the moment she’d finished making arrangements with the innkeeper, leaving him to take care of the horses. Something in the text must be bothering her. 

“That’s a lot of… not very exciting reading, apparently,” he attempted.

She looked at him for a moment, as though not sure how to respond to his lack of solemnity. “On the contrary,” she countered. “It’s a delight. I’m riveted.” She let her eyes sparkle with the shared humor for a half-second, this time throwing him off balance.

“Oh. You’re joking.” He blinked a few times, simultaneously glad to see what passed as his friend’s sense of humor still somewhat intact, and concerned by the shadows that didn’t leave her eyes even as she attempted levity.

That levity passed quickly.

“You know what the Rite of Tranquility is, of course. The last resort used on mages in the Circle, leaving them unable to cast but depriving them of dreams and all emotions.”

He had seen it too many times, in fact. While he’d never wielded the brand himself, he’d overseen the Rite performed dozens of times while at the Gallows. Some in the Templar ranks had even advocated something called the Tranquil Solution. The thought sent shivers down his spine now. He’d never been on board for the idea, though he’d considered the arguments and thought them valid at the time, if somewhat extreme. Thank the Maker Meredith and the Kirkwall Chantry never adopted the practice, even after the red lyrium turned her into a power-mad and just plain mad tyrant.

“It should only be used on those who cannot control their abilities,” he responded, setting aside his stein. “…But that has not always been the case.”

She nodded, recognizing the weight of experience behind his words. “Deprived of all emotion… Now it sounds—I always thought it a necessary evil. What finally began the mage rebellion was the discovery the Rite of Tranquility could be reversed.”

She gave him a moment to digest the revelation. 

“The Lord Seeker at the time covered it up—harshly. There were deaths.”

This seemed to explain some of the stranger findings Ashara recounted from the Western Approach.

“It was dangerous knowledge,” she continued. “The shock of its discovery in addition to what happened in Kirkwall…”

_Anders._ He took up the stein again and swallowed down the memories. 

“But it appears we’ve _always_ known how to reverse the Rite. From the beginning.”

He choked. “What?!”

He stared at her, struggling to comprehend what she was saying. He realized that the Seekers, if not starting the mage rebellion outright, had had a heavy hand in events.

“We created the Rite of Tranquility… You know some of the Seekers’ ways. I told you of my Vigil—The months I spent emptying myself of all emotion? I was made Tranquil. And did not even know. Then the Vigil summoned a spirit of Faith to touch my mind.”

Cold horror crept through his nerves, tensing muscles just begun to relax. 

“That broke Tranquility—and gave me my abilities.”

So when Lord Seeker Lucius had referred to the Seekers as Abominations, he wasn’t being poetic.

“The Seekers did not share that secret. Not with me. Not with the Chantry. Not even with…” 

Did she mean to say that Divine Justinia hadn’t known either? The Seekers had always stood separate from the Chantry, but were supposed to be part of the system. Those were the terms of the dissolution of the original Inquisition, weren’t they?

“There’s more.” Cassandra stood and paced through the empty tavern. “Lucius was not wrong about the Order. I thought to rebuild the Seekers once victory was ours. Now I’m not certain it deserves to be rebuilt.” She gazed out at the quiet streets of Herald’s Valley.

“You said there was more in the book…” 

“At some point, power becomes its own master. We cast aside ideals in favor of expedience and tell ourselves it was all necessary. For the people.” She looked at him over her shoulder, as though analyzing his own history in this newly revealed context.

“Will that happen to us, Cullen? Will the Inquisition repeat history?”

All air seemed to leave the room.

The Inquisition as it stood now was more than just separate from the Chantry. At times they’d been opponents. And rightly so. But still… 

“No,” he asserted. “We’re nothing like the Seekers. Ashara is… She is not interested in power.”

Cassandra sighed. “I wonder how much we resemble what they used to be.”

He dismissed the thought. No, his love would never go along with the Inquisition becoming a corrupt organization. She was transparent and gracious, and avoided playing in politics beyond the immediate needs of the Inquisition’s fight. It wouldn’t happen, and that was the end of it.

Yet Cassandra’s face was still pale and drawn. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so shaken.”

“I do not think the Seekers have been doing the Maker’s work. Not truly.”

His heart went out to her. He had been there himself with the Templars not too long before she’d arrived in Kirkwall.

“Perhaps we believed it, once. The original Inquisition came to be during a terrible time. But now? We harbored secrets and let them fester. We acted to survive, but not to serve. That is not the Maker’s work.” She shook her head defiantly. 

He tried to ignore the sensation of his remaining faith struggling against the current. Was there nothing true to what he’d been taught? The things he’d dedicated his life to since childhood had so far turned out to be nothing but lies crafted as bulwarks for entrenched and corrupted power.

But Cassandra’s belief, product of possession or not, was still in there. He knew it. The Inquisition was his chance to atone for his failures in Kinloch and his sins in Kirkwall. It could be her opportunity to recreate what the institution had once stood for before the Chantry and secretive leaders destroyed it.

“If you did rebuild the Seekers, how would you do it?”

“I can’t be the only one remaining.” There was hope in her voice. “We were always spread to the winds, and some may still be out there. I would find them one by one. We would all read this book—no more secrets. Then together we would establish a new charter. The Maker’s work, in truth.”

He couldn’t help himself. “You keep saying that, but what is ‘the Maker’s work?” It certainly wasn’t the Circles or the Templar Order. Not as he’d come to know them. Not as the Chantry would have them restored.

“There is no way to know for certain. That is why we must seek it out.” She said it with force. “Perhaps we lost our way because we stopped looking.”

He watched her stiff form. Cassandra represented the things he still appreciated about the Chantry—the discipline and devotion to something greater than the self, a sense of duty and service toward mankind, faith in the ultimate good of creation. That last one he struggled with now, but she held on with both hands still. It was admirable, gave him hope, even if it might only be the side effect of the Rite.

She turned and looked at him with weary gratitude. “Thank you. I could not have done this on my own. I hope this has not… caused more confusion or pain for you.”

“No…” He shook his head and stood. “I am honored to have accompanied you, Lady Cassandra. I know better than to tell you not to let this bother you too much.” He reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment. “Thank you.”


	35. Part II. Chapter 16.

He lay awake the whole night, staring at the rafters above him. The corruption of the Seekers needled at him. The whole Chantry was rotten, apparently. Not a thing he’d believed in was as it had seemed. Power-seekers and ideologues had taken everything he once thought holy and tainted it with a blight no Grey Warden could eliminate.

He sighed and shifted, noticing that the sky outside the narrow window of their sleeping quarters was beginning to soften from pitch to charcoal. The sun would be visible above the horizon soon. Or in a few hours. It didn’t matter. There wouldn’t be any sleep.

He left the room as quietly as he could, buckling on his breastplate and pauldrons by feel alone, then wrapping his cloak around him sloppily in a silent act of rebellion against decades of soldierly discipline. 

There was a familiar bite of chill in the air outside that his lungs welcomed. The tightness in his chest seemed to relax a bit with each deep breath. No one else was awake at this hour, and the torches and lamps that marked the new road were all dark, snuffed out or burned through their fuel overnight. This was always the darkest hour, and one with which his nightmares had acquainted him quite well.

The flickering candle of Ashara prevented the darkness from penetrating too far, but he felt the heaviness nonetheless. He sank onto a bench near the stables and stared at the stony ground. Cassandra’s faith and loyalty to the Chantry and the Seekers’ beliefs and role had given him hope before, kept him tethered to a steadying pole: perhaps there was still some value in the Chantry. Perhaps it was only a small handful of bad actors within the Templars and the Divine’s inner circle. But no. It was the entire institution. The severing of the Nevarran Accord had made it easier to see the blood-soaked, lyrium-tainted rot that had permeated everything associated with the Chantry.

Seeing Cassandra’s struggle… _“Perhaps it is time I let the Seekers go. The Inquisition might replace them. We could be the new force for the Maker’s truth… The Seekers came from the original Inquisition after all…”_ The need for reassurance had been so thick as to make her voice nearly unrecognizable. 

Cassandra leaving the Seekers, possibly deciding to let the most ancient and venerated branch of the Chantry die off, struck a particular nerve. She had been the Right Hand of the Divine, had dedicated her life to the Chantry—not just the ideals of the Chantry as Cullen had done, but the institution itself. And now she was contemplating letting it all go.

Even Leliana could readily point to the Chantry’s missteps and mistakes, though she still clung to the ideal of Andraste. She had seemed to hope more than any of them that Ashara really was a holy herald. 

And the things Ashara had learned in her battles against Corypheus and trips through the Fade…

But Cassandra, like Leliana, was still convinced that the teachings of Andraste were valid, regardless of the actions of her disciples—both recent and ancient—and were worth preserving, even furthering. Maybe there were ways to reconcile the nightmares Ashara had uncovered and the truth at the root of the Chant…

He groaned and leaned back against the wall behind him, letting his head fall back against the stone with a thunk. There were too many questions to be answered. It made his head hurt.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

What was he going to do when this was done? Certainly the Inquisition wouldn’t last forever. There was no going back to the Templars, even if they still existed and would have accepted him back. The Seekers were a non-starter. Anything Chantry-related, no matter who the next Divine was, was out of the question at this point. And eventually, he was still convinced, almost twenty years of lyrium use was going to catch up with him. He would likely be totally useless to the Inquisition at that point. He needed to be able to do something else.

He’d thought of this before. He wasn’t going to get any farther along that path today.

_Wasting time again, Rutherford. Admit that you want to still be with her after she saves the world. You, Ashara, a quiet home somewhere in Ferelden. Maybe a mabari…_

_Does she like dogs?_

It was a seductive image: Ashara, hair freed from her battle braids, dressed in Fereldan garb, the strength and beauty of her shoulders bared to the sun as they wandered hand-in-hand through a field of wheat on their own land. A couple of dogs frolicking behind them. They would build their home themselves, brick-by-brick, a solid testament to their love—unique, simple, honest, and strong against anything the harsh Fereldan weather could throw at them. 

_Children…_

He’d grown up in a big family, but in dedicating his life to the Templars, had never expected to have one of his own.

_“I can never give you children.”_ The way she’d wept… As a noblewoman she had probably been raised to see her reproductive potential as the primary source of her social value. 

_Bloody nonsense._

He again felt a surge of anger at the thought of his love’s family and upbringing. Played as a token in some twisted game of alliance and power, she was never seen as a person in her own right. Her name and title were all that mattered to that tier of Thedosian society. Had she not run away after all of those failed arrangements, she would have been dumped on the Chantry, a way to further elevate the Trevelyan name among the power elite. Their own blood… Used for money and politics.

A woman was more than a name and a womb. That repellant tradition among the nobility of Orlais and, apparently, the Marches, disgusted him. Why they thought half the population was only good for status—achieving it and symbolizing it—but nothing else, was baffling. His parents had been equals—his mother could plow a field, keep the farm’s books, and hunt game as well as (or better than) his father. His older sister, as heir apparent, had been trained to take over the farm just as Josephine had been trained her whole life to take over her family’s business. He’d served alongside women in the Templars, had answered to women superiors who had been as good and as bad as any man in their ranks. The Fifth Blight had been ended by a woman. Kirkwall had been championed by a woman, and was now kept safe by a woman.

For the bloody Maker’s sake, Andraste herself was a woman! A warrior, savior, prophet. And being a mother had been no detriment to her power, so that argument can take a long walk off a short pier.

Nobles made no fucking sense. People were people, regardless of the ability to give birth or not, or the height or shape of their bodies.

It’s the same nonsense behind the discrimination against elves—some pathetic need to assert power over other people. The Chantry could make up any justification it wanted, there was no reason to treat poorly women, elves, people from different nations or with different beliefs. Didn’t the Maker form them all?

_And mages…?_ He blushed inwardly thinking of his shame. The paralyzing terror he had felt for years had melted away in part… But even before that, he had followed along with what the Chantry had taught him.

_“Magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him.”_ Honestly, the phrase could mean any manner of thing. 

They’d used it to lock up innocent people.

_And you were complicit. You begged Solona to kill them all. Children, Rutherford. Innocent apprentices. There is blood on your hands._

_And I will atone, damnit._

“We can get on the road now if you’re ready.”

He startled at the sound of Cassandra’s voice, once again sharp as ever. 

The hazy light of pre-dawn brought her figure into view. Already armored, braid reset, muscles tensed as though to draw her sword at the slightest hint of need, she looked like she’d never gone to bed, or even needed sleep.

“Or perhaps you’d like some breakfast first.” She smiled now. “The innkeeper was awake and preparing breakfast. Ferelden-style.”

His stomach growled in answer. He thought he could smell the fat sausages and fresh bread.

She smiled knowingly. “I have never developed a taste for the… simple flavors of most Fereldan cuisine, but your people are very good at breakfast.”

He chuckled as he stood to follow her back inside.

They had landed in Denerim on their journey to Haven, and the overland trip to the Conclave had involved several overnight stays in small towns. Every morning on which they awoke in beds rather than bedrolls had been started with a proper, hearty Fereldan breakfast meant to fuel a farmer or miner. And Cassandra could put away eggy toast, porridge, and bacon at a pace and volume that matched his own. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed or intimidated by such an appetite in a warrior half his size.

Either way, she did not disappoint, keeping up with him as they consumed enough food for a small army before leaving. Grateful for the reminder of home, he left a substantial amount of gold with the gape-mouthed innkeeper before they rode away.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a slight nod to the amazing "Letters from Orlais" series by Kauri in here. The reference isn't significant, but the line is only in there because I had been reading those and... oomph.
> 
> Credit where it's due: http://archiveofourown.org/series/386488

He was bathed and dressed, the dust and sweat of the road cleaned away, leaving only the stain of their discovery at Caer Oswin. Despite his full stomach, he couldn’t shake the hollow feeling of losing more of his grasp of the growing complexities behind a once-thought simple faith. 

He groaned almost pleasurably with his sore muscles as he descended from his loft into his office. It was late enough in the day that he shouldn’t expect much new business to cross his desk. With luck, he’d be able to get through the week’s worth of messages left for him. Barris and Josephine should have dealt with most matters, leaving only personal letters and possibly a handful of more sensitive requests for him to deal with. 

Maybe an hour of paperwork and then he could go check on Ashara. 

One of her attendants was to notify him immediately upon her waking from her much-needed rest. According to the surgeon, the Inquisitor had begun to resume something closer to a normal training schedule, though at an intensity level far below the usual. It had been the best news he’d heard in weeks, and he owed Dorian his sincerest gratitude for healing their leader so quickly.

“Commander!”

The young man’s voice startled him from his mental checklist, nearly upsetting his footing on the ladder. He stumbled, catching himself in time to avoid tumbling the last two feet to the plank floor.

_Blighted Jim._

“What?” he barked irritably. The messenger had an uncanny ability to turn the most routine exchange into an awkward situation.

“Welcome back, ser.”

Jim continued to stand in expectant silence, as though waiting to be asked some particular question. Cullen simply stared back at the moon-faced Fereldan, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to explain his presence in the Commander’s tower. 

The Maker might have returned before the idiot spoke of his own volition.

“Yes, soldier? Did you have a report for me?”

“Oh! Um, yes. I just… Ah. I wanted to make sure you got this.” He nudged the crate beside him with a scuffed boot. “From the um… Marquis of… um… I can’t—It’s from Orlais. A thank you from one of the nobles.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“Um, no, ser.”

“Thank you.” 

Cullen strode to his desk and picked up a stack of papers. Barris had compiled notes on the dozens of field reports that had come in over the week, offering his personal conclusions and interpretations where appropriate. 

This wouldn’t take as much time as he’d expected. Good. Maybe he could even get in a round of chess with Dorian this evening. 

He really did owe the mage. 

He smiled to himself thinking of the amazing woman Dorian’s magic had saved. She had been in rather high spirits before he and Cassandra had gone out to Caer Oswin. After the revelations of that rough trip, it would be wonderful to see her lovely smile again.

He looked up at the sound of someone sniffling and saw Jim still standing there by the Orlesian crate, staring at him.

_Oh, for love of the Maker…_

“Jim?”

“Yes, ser.” The young man stood a little straighter.

“You may go.”

“Oh, um. Yes, ser.” He turned clumsily, nearly tripping over the crate as he left.

The man had signed up early on, at Haven, when they were still desperate for troops. There was no other reason to have such a fool in their ranks.

Cullen shook his head and leaned back to half sit on his desk, taking in the new information their scouts had dug up on the Red Templars’ activities in the Emprise. While their forces would be able to handle some of the more mundane matters Thedosians were bringing to the Inquisition’s attention, it seemed it would still be best to have the Inquisitor’s core strike force finish the job they’d started in the Emprise. He tossed the sheaf of papers back onto the desk and massaged the knot forming at the base of his neck, cursing rationality and Ashara’s martial skill and sharp mind. Of course she would need to return to that Blighted iceberg.

He caught a glimpse of the crate Jim had delivered as he turned from the desk. The thing was suspiciously plain for something out of Orlais. The Marquis of something, eh? Maybe some Chevalier from a noble house? Could it be weapons? Armor? Maybe something that could turn the tide of the battle against Corypheus!

He wedged his dagger under a board and pried it loose, revealing the contents of the package.

“Wine?”

He plucked a letter from between two bottles and scanned it briefly before crumpling it fiercely and tossing it aside. Another proposal for a two-party alliance to be sealed with a kiss.

Completely inappropriate. Ridiculous, even. Who says such things? Not that he necessarily would have minded doing some of the things mentioned in the lewd letters sent from Oralis… Just not with the people sending them.

Ashara would look absolutely stunning dressed in the get-up the letter described, sipping Orlesian red while enjoying the sun on her bare skin…

_Damn it, Rutherford. Not now._ But the distraction was excuse enough.

Cursed Orlesians. With those thoughts in his head, he would be useless at any serious strategic considerations of the planned raid of Suledin Keep. He plucked a bottle from the crate and set off toward the garden. At this hour, Dorian would surely be there, and the man had been complaining about the lack of “decent options” in the Inquisition’s cellars. 

Nothing like a game of chess with a friend to get his mind off such inappropriate thoughts.

***** ***** *****

He really should have known better.

Cullen stared at the pieces inexplicably arranged on the chessboard—clearly Dorian had been cheating whenever Cullen was sufficiently distracted by Sera and Dorian’s rude remarks. 

His cheeks burned. The ends of his hair were probably blushing.

“Oh, come now, Commander. Surely—“

“That’s what I’m saying! He and Quizzy both need to… Come. Now” Sera doubled over at her own weak, ribald joke. 

Dorian smirked roguishly and twisted the curl of his mustache. “Subtly put, Sera. As always.”

She made a rude gesture in response.

“But, really now, Cullen, she’s not entirely off base. Our beloved Lady Trevelyan has been through quite a lot, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile unless we’re discussing dear Ashara or... trebuchet calibrations. And war does have a nasty habit of creating a lot more painful memories than pleasant moments. Don’t waste this time you get together. Make sure she knows how you feel about her.” Dorian spoke with a hushed passion, his voice implying the empathy of experience.

Cullen grunted dismissively. “You sound like Cassandra.”

“Oh, now things just got much more interesting,” Dorian drawled, leaning forward and picking up his wine glass. “You’ve been getting relationship advice from _the Seeker_? No wonder you’re such a mess! What could _she_ possibly know about such affairs of the heart?”

“Pfft!” Sera erupted. “Have you seen those books she reads? If he was taking her advice, Quizzy wouldn’t be able to ride her horse!”

The two disintegrated into gleeful giggles.

“Maker's breath, why do I even bother?” He rose from his chair, shaking his head. “Good night, Dorian.”

“Hey! What about me?!”

“Good night, Sera. Don’t drink too much,” he tossed over his shoulder.

A familiar smell struck him as he turned. 

_Peonies?_

It was late in the season for them, but the cooler mountain weather must have been just right, for there they were, their heavy heads bobbing lazily in the breeze. He took a few steps closer, breathing in the sweet, soapy perfume. 

He pulled his dagger from his belt, and cut a few stems, ignoring Sera’s howls as he gathered the blossoms into a fragrant bouquet. Ashara would love the flowers.

***** ***** *****

She was still resting, her face peaceful as she slept. The color was beginning to return to her face. Clearly she wasn’t quite yet back to full health, but she looked more like herself. 

He settled onto the sofa and took a long pull from a mug of ale.

“She missed you, you know. Asks for you every time she wakes up. She’s completely smitten.” Jamila perched on the arm of the sofa, a glass of mead in one hand, a copy of _Tale of the Champion_ in the other. “The way you’ve been there for her over these past months has really meant a lot to her. Sounds like you were the only person not to put pressure on her about the whole Herald of Andraste thing. You were her ‘safe place’ she said.”

“Safe place?”

“Yeah. Her sanctuary.” She smiled. “Starting with those training sessions back at Haven. You’ve been her confidante and supporter. She had no desire to become the leader of a massive, world-changing movement—she’s always run from responsibility—and you were the only person in the whole Inquisition who’s given her room to be herself. To be weak.”

She watched him as though to test his reaction. 

“I never intended to… expose her vulnerabilities. I—I simply tried to—to treat her the way any person should be treated.”

“Not many people have ever treated Ashara Ceridwyn verch Trevelyan like a person.”

He looked up sharply and held her eyes as she continued.

“Ever notice how emotional she gets whenever anyone is nice to her? Like, nice without the expectation of getting something out of her in return? The tears? Crying every time someone is kind or generous or affectionate toward her? How lonely and desperate for companionship she can seem?”

The docks at Haven. Their brief time alone in the mountain pass. The battlements. The night they’d almost made love... 

She surrounded herself with a close band of fiercely loyal fighters, yet was so nakedly vulnerable only with him. 

He had seen a bit of himself reflected in their interactions. The innocent nervousness and incongruous blend of jaded experience and naivety made sense now. And made him feel even more honored that he was her 'safe place'.

“Her family used her as a pawn to gain higher standing. All the men she was promised to… Mephystus tried to use her to extract ransom then thought he could sell her into slavery. That’s why she was so close to Isabela.”

“Mephystus?”

“The Tevinter slave trader… You… Didn’t… She didn’t tell you?”

“She said she ran off with a pirate, that it didn’t work out as she’d hoped. But… I wasn’t fully aware of the details. I gathered that she had been… mistreated by said pirate, and that Isabela had somehow liberated her?”

Jamila grimaced. “Oh. Sorry.” She averted her eyes and chewed her lower lip. “But yes. He pretended to be a Rivaini trader captain and tricked her into coming with him. She was going to be ‘given’ to the Chantry. She was so naïve and desperate to get out of Ostwick that she fell for it. The bastard sailed a bit too close to Llomeryn on the way back to Tevinter during one of the Raiders’ particularly anti-slavery kicks. I’ll let ‘Shara tell you the rest.”

He nodded, staring into the middle distance. It seemed that every bit he learned of her past was sadder than the last. 

_Giving that woman the happiness she was due is going to be even harder than you thought, Rutherford._

Not that he ever shrank from a challenge…

“Hence my threat when we first spoke. She’s had few true friends, and you’ve seen how much of herself she’s willing to give. But everything I’ve seen of you. And now read…” She raised the book and her eyebrows at the same time.

He groaned at the sight of the book. 

“Varric swears it’s all true. Sounds like you’ve been through more hell than I initially thought. And now here you are, saving my girl’s life and leading her army.”

She patted his knee and rose to leave.

“She’ll be awake soon. I’ll leave you two alone. She’s been looking forward to your return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with me if you have. If you're contemplating leaving, please don't leave me yet, I promise there's some substance coming soon! 
> 
> Life has been... life. I haven't been able to write nearly as much as I want and the story is suffering for it. But now that I'm laid up with a broken foot and the horrible humid summer of my swamp city is setting in, maybe I'll write more. 
> 
> I've got a lot mapped out and it's getting built up more and more, but the actual narrative is coming in fits and starts. Hope my writing style isn't falling off too much. 
> 
> Encouragement is much appreciated.


	37. Part II. Chapter 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support! I need to buckle down and get back to writing a little bit every evening.   
> I got good news from my doctor and will be starting PT in a couple of weeks. Woot.

He paced the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He toyed with the old coin, worrying at the lines of Andraste’s silhouette the way he had done as a lad when he was worried about something or missed his family. Before everything had gone so fantastically sideways and luck became less about kissing pretty girls or passing inspection after a long night, and more about improbable survival. He had barely thought of the thing for probably four years now, yet he always carried it with him, placing it under his pillow every night and returning it to his pocket every morning.

Jamila’s words weighed on him. Ashara had never really known love. Not the kind of familial love that had kept his heart warm when the world froze over, nor the romantic love the hope for which had been a flickering candle flame in his darkest nights—especially since they’d become close. 

His appreciation for Dorian grew. As he thought more about the mage’s actions and words, it became more apparent that it was not out of simple duty to the Inquisition or loyalty to his leader that he’d done so much to save Ashara. The worry in the man’s eyes, the determined set to his jaw—Dorian did it all out of love for Ashara. It was the same kind of love that brought Jamila on the treacherous journey down the Amaranthine Ocean and along the rocky coasts of the Waking Sea to Jader to be at her friend’s side.

He hoped she knew how much she was loved by her friends.

_Yet you dismiss Cassandra and Dorian’s words. How is she going to know if you don’t tell her, Rutherford?_

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling the still damp curls. But how could he tell her? He couldn’t just tell her—the Inquisitor of all people—that he loved her. He had to do something to show her he cared for her in a way that went well beyond his role as her commander, trainer, or advisor. And more than just a… a lover. As eager as he was to progress things on that front, he felt something deeper and all-encompassing and she deserved to know— _needed_ to know how precious she was to him. 

She was like family—had given him a sense of family, belonging, that he’d never found amongst the Templars.

_Mia would love her, too._

He couldn’t help but smile.

The whole clan on the docks by the little unnamed lake near the farm… Ashara and Mia whispering to each other and laughing… Branson and his wife and babe—Alaric, was it?—splashing along the edge of the water… Rosalie and this Gwaren man named Brengy Mia had told him about… 

Maker… Little Rosalie was betrothed. Curious, rambunctious, little Rosalie with her violently red hair and face full of freckles was a woman now and would be married soon. The last he’d seen her she was missing her front teeth. And now?

Twenty years? Had it really been so long since he’d seen his home?

He pulled the coin out of his pocket and stared wistfully at the reminder of the love that had once surrounded him. Branson had tried not to cry when his big brother left them, swung at him with the wooden practice sword Mia had whittled for Bran to use to train with him. They’d both ended up in the lake, laughing and pretending not to cry, hiding their tears with lake water.

“Cullen?” Ashara’s sleepy voice stirred him from those bittersweet memories. “You’re back!”

He tucked the coin safely back into his pocket and closed the distance to her bed where she was slowly untangling herself from her nest of blankets.

“I am. Just a few hours ago. Right after you fell asleep, apparently.”

She smiled through her waking haze. “I’m glad. I missed you.”

“So I heard.” He sat down beside her and cupped her cheek.

She breathed a small laugh. “Jamila tell you?”

He nodded and smiled.

“So then where’s my kiss?”

“Um. Ha!” He tilted her head back and leaned in to give her what she wanted, letting his lips linger against hers, touching just enough that they could feel the slow grins spreading across one another’s faces. He quite liked this bold side of her.

She breathed in deeply before opening her eyes. “How late is it? Have I missed dinner?”

He pulled back enough to let her sit up fully. “It’s early enough yet. Should I have someone bring you up a tray?”

“Two?” Her eyes sparkled. “I want to hear about your trip. Cassandra was a bit cryptic beyond, ‘We found the Seekers. They are no more.’ Did something happen? I mean, something more than just learning the Seekers had been corrupted by Corypheus?”

How to answer that question?

“Let me ask about some dinner and I’ll explain. It’s… difficult.”

He could feel her eyes on him as he crossed the room to alert the guards outside that the Inquisitor was awake and in need of food and more candles—it was likely going to be another long night debriefing from the field.

Her face was still, almost stony as he told the tale. “So… You’re telling me that the Templars were being led by a demon while the real Lord Seeker cut a deal with a bunch of cultists to kill off the Seekers because they were useless to Corypheus… Who he wanted to help end the world.” 

She set aside her glass and stood to begin pacing in front of the mantle. 

“I… Well, yes… In so many words.” He watched her, unsure of her glibness. 

“Is there _anything_ about this that doesn’t make the Chantry look like it’s responsible for _everything_ that’s ever gone wrong here?” She sneered the words.

If she was this agitated now, should he even tell her the rest? 

“I mean…” She started pacing. “The Lord Seeker! The _Lord Seeker_ was in a conspiracy with Corypheus?! …Maybe the Seekers planned the Conclave deliberately to help Corypheus. Maybe they started all of this—the whole mage-Templar war, starting in Kirkwall!”

“Well, no, I…” Her words settled like lead in his belly and a familiar pinch behind his eyes.

“And… Doesn’t that mean the Templars really were responsible for what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

He felt his defenses go up. “That’s not—But…” He sighed, willing himself to continue. “There’s more.” 

“More? How can there be more?” She stopped pacing and stared at him, apprehension written across her brow.

“Yes. …Well, Lucius referred to the Seekers as abominations when he was justifying himself to Cassandra. We thought he was being rhetorical, but….”

He watched Ashara’s eyes widen.

“Please don’t say…”

He nodded, the pain in his head spreading. 

“That’s… oh, Maker, Cullen…” Her hand slowly came to her mouth as she turned and stared into the middle-distance. “Abominations! I always thought the little bit of blood magic behind phylacteries was hypocritical but… justified. But ... abominations?”

_Blood magic? In phylacteries? What?_

He cleared his throat and shifted, watching her anger building. “It is… Seeker recruits are made Tranquil—“

She leaned forward, shock and horror in her wide eyes.

“—and then… ‘touched’ by a spirit of Faith, reversing the Tranquility for the most part… And that means they’ve always known that there was a cure…”

“For Tranquility?” she finished for him, tears of disbelief in her eyes.

He nodded.

She gazed at him, utterly aghast.

He steeled himself to finished, dreading her response. “It was this knowledge getting out that led to the rebel mages voting for independence.”

“And the Seekers and the Divine were there for that. Did they leak that knowledge to the mages? Does this mean… Fucking—No!—Maferath’s balls, Cullen, they _did_ start the whole thing! The fucking _Chantry_ did _all_ of this!” Her voice cracked. Her entire body crackled with tension.

He couldn’t follow parts of her thinking, but her conclusion was clear. She wasn’t entirely wrong, and he was also justifiably upset with the Chantry. But something about her delivery, or the strange, conspiratorial logic she used to get to the ultimate conclusion, set his teeth on edge. It felt like a blow to his own substance. His head was throbbing now, a withdrawal headache settling in for a long night.

“I… I don’t know about all of that, but… In some way, yes. The Seekers were responsible for the final straw leading to the war. But we don’t know exactly when Lucius began working with Corypheus, and it seems few, if any, beyond Lucius himself knew all of this…”

“I just—“ She scoffed. “I—“ She slapped her hand against the mantle. “And they… And they had the _nerve_ to call _us_ heretics—and, and Roderick! Before he… saw the light or whatever… he… he was trying to have me killed. Basically. Trying to send me to Val Royeaux.” She looked up in horror, her face pale. “Oh no. Oh, Maker, Cullen, do you think he was working with… No. No, he…”

“Ashara? Love?” He stood slowly, making his way to her side as she began trembling. “Are you… Ashara? Are you alright? Let’s get you back to bed...” He eased an arm around her shoulders, slowly turning her to face him. 

“I’m sorry, Cull. This is just… It’s too much to take in right now. Ever! I think my mind is trying to go in too many directions at once.” She leaned into him in an embrace. “I just can’t believe it. This is so awful.”

He nodded and kissed the top of her head. “I agree…”

“Ugh,” she exhaled in disgust, shaking the tension from her frame. “How did Cassandra take that? I guess that explains her recalcitrance when she gave her report… Shit.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. He still grappled with these new truths himself. There wasn’t much left of the Chantry he’d believed in. 

Or of the foundations upon which he’d built himself. 

What the Chantry hadn’t taken from him could fit in an empty lyrium kit.

He couldn’t help but wonder if it would let him keep her or if he would have yet another good thing ripped from his grasp.

“How are you taking all of this, Cullen?”

He inhaled slowly, trying to arrange the words in his head. It didn’t help that his head hurt enough to make him mildly nauseous.

“Cull?” She stepped back and looked at him, reaching a hand up to his cheek.

He covered her hand with his own and pressed it more firmly to his face, the pressure like an anchor keeping him moored safely to stability. 

“It… weighs heavily on me.” She waited for him to elucidate but he couldn’t continue. “I’d rather not discuss it now. We have… other things to worry about right now.” He squeezed her hand then dropped it.

She made a sound of exasperation. “There will always be ‘other things’, Cullen, but I care about you. I know this can’t be easy.”

“It’s not,” he snapped. “And I’d rather not discuss it now. Besides, it’s not something you’d understand.”

She jerked, taken aback by his sharp tone and sharper words. “Oh. Okay…” Clouds crossed her face as she seemed to visibly shrink.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not like… Maker’s breath, I’m sorry…”

_Well done, Rutherford._

But how could she understand what he was going through? It was more than a crisis of faith. The betrayal he felt was more real than just the revelation of Chantry hypocrisy. 

“N-no, I… It’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to… Um… I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything you’re not… comfortable with.” She backed away, fidgeting, and returned to her bed as he watched helplessly.

“Ashara, I’m sorry. It’s… it’s something I need to take some time to understand myself before I’m comfortable sharing. Even with you.” He softened his gaze and followed after her.

“Of course.” She offered him a weak smile. “I don’t want to push you. I mean it. I’m here when you’re ready… If you want to talk about it some time.”

The hackles she’d raised with her earlier remarks began to relax. He could feel the unwinding in his chest, his breathing growing deeper, though the headache showed no signs of dissipating. “Thank you, my lady.”

Her smile grew a little warmer. “Anything else to report?”

“No.” He closed his eyes and massaged his neck, hoping to loosen the pain.

“Are you alright, Cull?”

“It’s nothing. A bit of a headache is all. I’ll be fine in the morning. If you’ll…” He gestured toward the door. 

“Oh! Um. Of course. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yes, yes,” he responded.

He knew she was watching him in confusion as he hurried away, but he had to get back to his tower before the sweating and shaking started. With luck, he wouldn’t be sick.

***** ***** *****

He wasn’t a lucky man.

He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It had been so long since his last episode. Why now?

He thought he knew why. All the talk about the Chantry’s corruption… It took him back there in some small way. Though his mind remained clear, the physical memory of his role within the Chantry—the heavy armor to protect him against evil magic; the intensive training to prepare him for hunting, guarding, killing mages; the lyrium to… give him abilities strong enough to counter magic…?

No. Lyrium to control him. To hook him, make him an unquestioning pawn in a dangerous game of oppression and power.

He let out a primal scream of frustration and slammed his fists into the bed. 

What did he know that was true? What had he learned that wasn’t a carefully constructed lie—a fairy tale told to a naïve boy?

What evils had he himself wrought in the name of that Chantry? Would he have done those things on his own, driven solely by that innocent, childhood drive to protect those in need? 

He mourned the death of that boy, the one who’d so admired the knights at the village Chantry. His friends had scoffed at him when he’d declared his intentions of becoming one of those beacons of righteous strength—how could an adolescent farm boy acquire skills those trained from birth struggled to master?—but Mia had lent him her full support, and her formidable presence that scared the other children into helping him learn how to wield a sword. She loved him fiercely, helped him achieve his dream of becoming a Templar, and for what?

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, focusing on the bursts of color behind his eyelids, forcing himself to center and return to the present. What use was this self-pity? Yes, he had let himself become a tool of the Chantry, had shed blood and broken lives. But he left. He chose to leave, to seek out a way to fulfill his goal of protecting—and to atone for the sins he’d committed in the name of the Maker and in the haze of lyrium.

His muscles seized again at the thought of the glowing poison. 

The power he felt under its spell… The intense connection to something much larger than himself… Larger, even, than the Chantry and the reach of the Maker. 

But what was the Maker’s reach when He’d turned His back on them all? 

_Enough, Rutherford!_ He inhaled slowly, exhaled out the pensive angst. _Not now. There is a job to be done, and you won’t find answers like this, only more questions than can be dreamt of in all your philosophy._

There was work to be done. And he would do it. That was the easy part. The waiting…

How must Ashara feel? Waiting… Healing and wondering… Unable to help—

_Oh._

She must feel the way he had for months now—stuck in a tower, unable to contribute to the effort. She must be going mad herself. He knew she was easily imprisoned by her own mind, her own self-loathing.

_Oh, Ashara… Love…_

He fingered the coin in his pocket, searching his mind for some way to help her—and himself—escape that crushing prison of self-torment. He could actually do something, take her mind from those thoughts, make her feel as loved as she was. Or try to at least.

Honnleath—or what was left of it after the Blight and the war—wasn’t far. With the repairs and improvements the Inquisition had made to the roads from Skyhold, they could be on the Imperial Highway within a day and half ride… maybe two days with her still so weak… And then maybe another day to…

_The lake._

His little refuge as a child. It must still be there. The Blight couldn’t destroy an entire lake.

A smile replaced his stony grimace as he stared at the old coin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing internal dialogue as external narration comes out choppy. But these chapters are fun. I get to headcanon my way through the holes and problems in the actual games. :)


	39. Part II. Chapter 19.

There was a message on his desk when he came down to his office in the morning. Their morning war council meeting was cancelled by Ashara’s request. A flicker of concern strangled him for half a moment—was she alright? Had their conversation the evening before upset her so much that she’d somehow relapsed?

He twisted the message into a short rope of worry, the paper and his leather gloves squeaking in anxious harmony.

There was much to be done, much to discuss. He wanted to clear troop movements with her, and ensure the proper supplies were being moved to the Emprise in preparation for the attack on Suledin Keep. Leliana had been receiving messages from all over Orlais with potential clues as to Corypheus’s plots. Several of her companions had submitted requests or suggestions as well. And certainly Josephine had messages from some noble or other that might prove useful nuisances.

Ashara was not the type to blow off responsibilities. Silly as she may behave at times, she was dedicated to their cause, to a point others might consider obsessive or unhealthy. Could she have finally had her fill after his revelations to her?

But she would have said something.

He grunted and tossed the ruined paper onto the desk. There was no use over-thinking it. There was work to be done, and he could manage without her input on some things.

For a short time, at least. She would need to sign off on the relocation of their war engines and the bulk of their active forces from Adamant. And he wanted her opinion on assigning additional troops to the southern regions where reports indicated increased Venatori presence. And then there were Rylen’s recent dispatches from Griffon Wing.

_Just like you to need your superior’s approval on everything. Soldier up, Rutherford. You’re the Commander!_

_…But she’s the Inquisitor…_

And he worried about her.

He buried himself in paperwork, documenting and cross-checking everything, filing duplicates as necessary, marking areas of interest on his master map. 

Things were almost silent in the Hinterlands now, he realized, much to his relief. The Inquisitor had closed all known rifts and settled the mage-Templar conflict early enough that locals were expecting a usual harvesting schedule this year. _Perhaps with better yields_ , he thought with disgust. All the blood spilled on Fereldan’s already-rich soil might make for especially good growing. A ghastly fertilizer, to be sure.

This also meant it would be perfectly safe for the two of them to venture down the mountains to Honnleath, perhaps even without any additional guards.

Assuming he ever asked her. Where was she? Should he go look for her?

The quartermaster’s reports were reassuring: they had more supplies than they could ever use thanks to donations and the resourcefulness of the Inquisition’s people in the field. He made a note to consider strategic reallocations of some of their food stores come winter—an excellent way to secure further support should they still be hunting Corypheus in a few months’ time.

Maker, he hoped they would be done by winter. But to think that the Inquisition might manage to complete its mission in only a single year? Laughable. In his experience, nothing was ever simple, quick, or bloodless.

_Except loving her._ The thought came unbidden. He smiled despite himself. She was an incredible woman. She deserved a break. Maybe that’s all she was doing—sleeping in and giving herself the time she needed to recover.

But wouldn’t she have said so? She was usually completely forthright with him. To a fault, even. …The way she’d bared herself to him in Haven, long before he expected her to feel so comfortable with him…

“Cullen?” Her voice, soft and uncertain, broke into his thoughts.

He looked up and found her standing only a few feet from him, dressed simply in soft leather breeks and a loose, Rivaini-style tunic, the thin fabric and open laces revealing a lack of corselet or breastband. Her bare arms drew his eyes away from the obvious; they were beginning to recover the impressive muscle tone she’d displayed before… her injuries.

He stumbled to his feet. “There you are!” he exhaled.

“Oh! Were you waiting for me?” Her smile grew uncertain, as though she was trying to remember if she’d forgotten something.

“Yes,” he blurted out, too excited to see her bright eyes and glowing cheeks. 

_Down, boy._

“I mean, no.”

“Oh good,” she drawled, a smirk replacing the nervous grin. “I’ve kept, _and_ not kept, you waiting…”

He sighed in frustration with himself. At least her teasing was good-humored. Or so he hoped. He searched for clues in her eyes, which held nothing but affection for him. “Let me start over?” he begged.

“By all means,” she assented, shifting her weight and cocking her hips distractingly.

Maker, how he wanted to grip those inviting swells of feminine flesh in his hands, pull her close to him…

He shook the inviting image from his mind fast enough (he hoped) to not disrupt their conversation. 

“We have some dealings in Ferelden. I was hoping you might accompany me.” He couldn’t keep the hopefulness out of his voice. “When you can spare the time, of course,” he added quickly.

Her posture straightened, flirtation shifting immediately to alertness. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No!” _Damnit, Rutherford._ “I would rather explain there.” He cast hopeful eyes on hers. “I-if you wish to go?”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, a smile—this time curious—playing on her lips. “I believe there’s time now,” she said, eyebrows raised.

He couldn’t help the huge grin that leapt onto his face then erupted in full bloom when he saw her own delighted response to his happiness.

“I—I will make the necessary arrangements,” he responded, scarcely believing his luck.

She was coming! She said she would join him! She actually wanted to be with him outside of Skyhold and the Inquisition and everything… 

_And slow down, Rutherford._

“Should I… prepare anything?”

“Oh! Yes, ah… We’ll be gone for… perhaps a fortnight? So… Clothes? No armor! Unless you wish to wear your armor, of course. But, I mean… There won’t be any need. Things have calmed down in Ferelden, and where we’re going… Well…” A blush rose on his cheeks. “We’re not heading into a battle or anything, is what I mean. This is more of a… social call, you might say. So, yes. Clothes and any… lady’s things you might need.”

She gazed at him with amusement. “Alright. I’ll go pack. Ferelden-appropriate clothes, my ‘lady’s things’, and no armor.” She turned to go. “But I am bringing my sword, Commander,” she shot over her shoulder with a smile as she left.

He smiled so big it turned into a chuckle then rapped his knuckles on his desk. Right then. Preparations.

***** ***** *****

“Are you sure it’s alright for us to be away for so long?” she asked again. “I know I’m practically useless for a while yet, but what if something happens and they need us?” She worried at her lip, which was beginning to look especially plump from all the nervous nibbling she’d been doing. 

_Maybe we should turn back. What are you thinking, Rutherford, taking the Inquisitor on holiday in the middle of a war?_

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out before he could respond. “I’m having a hard time with the whole powerlessness thing, not being able to fight, not being able to… _be there_. It’s tough. And I keep… obsessing over these little things…. Like, what if a message arrives at Skyhold while we’re gone? What if we find Corypheus? What if… What if!” She let out a sound of mixed disgust and frustration. “I _hate_ this, Cullen!”

He wasn’t sure how to respond. He could express empathy with the feelings of powerlessness, but then would that be presumptuous and patronizing, pretending that what he felt cooped up in his tower and always well behind the frontlines was anything like what she must be feeling? He could tell her to stop worrying, that all would be fine, but that… that was just dishonest and condescending to her intelligence and was too dismissive of the threat they faced. The threat that she was expected to single-handedly defeat in defense of the entirety of Thedas.

“I—I don’t mean… _this_.” She nodded her head toward him, indicating their time alone. “I just…” She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I’m itching to get back in the field, but Surgeon, Grim, Lord Chancer, even Leliana… They all say I’m not ready to return to the field. But, _damn it_ , Cullen, I need to be out there. I need to do… _something_!”

He pulled back on his reins, bringing his mount to a halt. She brought her horse in line with his and looked at him, questioning their stop and something existentially deeper.

“Ashara.” He spoke in a soothing tone. “You cannot fight until you are strong again. That time will come soon enough.”

She sighed in reluctant agreement, averting her eyes. He reached out for her hand, squeezing it, trying to press confidence into her.

“Let yourself heal. Your army is out there right now hunting down every clue to Corypheus’s whereabouts. We have our reach into every city and village in southern Thedas, and allies in Nevarra, Antiva, the Marches, and now Rivain. Everything that can be done, is being done. And when you’re ready, you will return to the field and join your soldiers, and you will defeat Corypheus.” 

He forced her to make eye contact, making certain his words hit home. “For now, love, you rest.”

The corner of her mouth turned upward just a tinge. 

“Besides, would _I_ take you away from duty?”

The sparkle came back to her eyes and he let a sheepish grin take hold. 

“Thank you, Cull.”

“Now, let’s ride. Ser Noodles looks like he could use a good gallop. Think you can manage a little race?”

She quirked her brows. “I might be able to hold on for a while. But are you sure you can keep up with a Trevelyan protégé, Ser Cullen? I don’t think you know what you’re up against…”

He’d only ever seen her riding in or out of base but knew her—and her famous family’s—equestrian reputation and had admired how easy she seemed in the saddle. 

“How about a sprint? We have a base camp near Haven—“

“—Or what remains of it,” she intoned grimly. 

_Arseon_?”

He wanted to kiss the smug grin off of her face.

He tried, but the smile only grew and was contagious.

“Fine. But generally speaking—“

“Nope!” She giggled, swatting him playfully with the curry comb. “ ‘Generally speaking’, nothing! I won.” She stuck her tongue out at him and handed him the tool.

He looked at her and shook his head, unable to control the chuckle rising from his throat. “How did you get his saddle off so quickly, anyway?”

“Quickly? What do you mean ‘quickly’? Must be a relative term. I’ve been waiting for ages.” 

A familiar-looking Inquisition scout emerged from behind a tent where Ashara’s fine leather saddle had apparently just been racked, and was heading for Cullen’s own horse.

“Ages, hm? Or maybe you had help?”

“Maybe a little…” 

She winked and turned to the young elven woman. “Thank you, Lavinia. Could you see to the rest of the horses’ needs? The Commander and I have some business to discuss.”

“O-of course, I-Inquisitor, your worship! Whatever you need!” She bowed repeatedly to both of them, her face turning a deeper red with every breath.

“And stop bowing! I thought we discussed this months ago. This isn’t Orlais and I’m not an aristocrat!” Ashara squirmed under the weight of adulation far more than she did under the weight of command.

The camp was quiet, only a few soldiers on assignment there. Enough to maintain a presence in the remote area and provide the Inquisition’s strike force a place to rest while on the road. Yet it was well-appointed and well-maintained. A small stream ran along the edge, providing fresh, clean water and a relaxing atmosphere. It was certainly different from the last camp settlement he’d slept in back in the Western Approach. 

Ashara knelt down by the stream and splashed her face, washing off the dust and sweat of their ride. As he stood up from his own ablutions, she stepped closer, bringing her body nearly flush with his. Her heat throbbed against his skin through the thin leather and linen between them.

“Ashara, someone might see—“

She cut his words off with a scorching kiss, catching him off guard. The kiss felt not only passionate, but loaded with some unspoken emotion.

When they separated, she gripped the open neck of his jerkin in tight fists. “Thank you, Cullen.”

“You’re… you’re welcome,” he managed. “But for what?”

Her eyes twinkled and she brought one hand to his jaw. “For… everything? But especially for… for this. Your support, your thoughtfulness. This time away.” She kissed him again, lightly this time. “For reminding me that I can be a normal person.”

He held her face between his hands and brushed his thumbs along her cheekbones. “I love you,” he wanted to say. But instead, he kissed her one more time.

She inhaled slowly then shattered the moment. 

“C’mon,” she chirped, releasing him and straightening her collar and sash. “Soup’s on.”

She dropped her voice and leaned in. “And we keep things very casual in this camp. I don’t think they know we’ve… taken up as… lovers. Yet. But you’ll get titles but little else. Please don't be offended by it. It’s not like Skyhold here. Except Lavinia. I can’t get her to stop with the bowing and scraping…”

She pulled away and jerked her head toward the heart of the camp where a pot of something was, indeed, steaming and bubbling near a growing bonfire.

He followed her into camp, head spinning. He hadn’t seen Ashara’s silly side in months and there was something strange about seeing her amongst their recruits like this. Was she always so chipper and comradely with them, or was it a side effect of her happiness at being up and about?

Judging by the barracks banter he walked into at the fire, her title meant little more than that they trusted her to make decisions. A dwarven scout was finishing one of the dirtiest jokes he’d ever heard—much to Ashara’s delight—as he caught up.

“What the hell are you doing out here anyway?” A lanky, older man with burn scars on one side of his face interrupted. “We got the bird from Commander Cullen that you two would be stopping by on your way into Ferelden, but no details. Is there something happening? I haven’t heard anything from Collier about rifts or anything…”

Ashara turned toward Cullen then, expectant. “I don’t know all the details. Cullen?” There was a teasing glint in her eyes. Either she was setting him up for embarrassment or she was trying to get details out of him that he’d refused to share so far.

“Classified, I’m afraid,” he responded in a stern voice, though returning her playful look. “Inquisition business. Top level secrecy.”

The camp deflated a little, impressed expressions quickly turning away from him with deference.

“Oh. Sorry, Commander, Ser,” the soldier responded. “I was not aware of the… seriousness of this mission, Ser. Is there… anything I can do for you, Ser?”

Not his intended effect, though Ashara seemed to be amused. 

“No, soldier. Nothing right now. I’d just… ah… I’ll have some dinner, and then the Inquisitor and I will need to speak. Alone.”

“Yes, Ser. Alone, Ser. I’ll prepare a tent for the two of you. To have some privacy, Ser.” 

He couldn’t quite tell, but he thought perhaps the man was making fun.

“Thank you, Brian.” She pat his shoulder companionably. “That will be all for this evening. Feel free to go about your regular business.”

The man saluted them with his fist over his heart and bowed his head before leaving the two of them alone by the fire.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen groaned, hopefully drowned out by Ashara’s giggles. “I didn’t mean to…”

She nudged him with her hip. “It’s alright, Cull. They’re laughing about your awkwardness already. And I think they’re now all terrified of you as well.”

This time she was biting her lip to keep from laughing, not out of anxiety. He struggled with the temptation to bite it himself.

“I would thank you to keep me from sticking my foot in my mouth like that again,” he murmured, still staring at her lips.

“I think it’s best then if you just don’t talk,” she snorted, eyes twinkling with reflected firelight. “Your sense of humor doesn’t exactly carry to those who don’t know you well. So, you know… No one but Cassandra and I know how charming you really are.”

She bumped him again before helping herself to a brimming ladleful of the savory-smelling stew. He took his own portion and followed her to a low bench where she had settled. She grinned over the hunk of bread she was using to bring the steaming meat and gravy to her mouth and he felt his heart stuttering.

This was an Ashara he’d not seen much of, not since Haven. It occurred to him then that she had an entire life outside the walls of Skyhold, a life where she was more than figurehead, Herald, or boss. This was a world where she was fully human, a person rather than a symbol. He had inadvertently taken her back to the world she probably missed desperately while lying in her sick bed in a remote castle. Where he’d worried that stopping at the camp might bring her unpleasant memories of battle and terror, she was completely at ease, laughing and joking with the scattering of Inquisition forces stationed there. This was her family, almost as much as the small band of warriors with whom she usually travelled were.

_“I don't want to be a hero, Cullen! I don't want to be the Herald of Andraste. I just want to be Ashara and live a normal life and fall in love and be at peace!”_

He watched her face between bites of his own dinner. She was at home here in a way she hadn’t seemed in Skyhold. There was a freedom to her energy. She was the happy young woman he’d seen at the Herald’s Rest with Hawke and her friends. It was as simple as this—a camp in the wilderness, surrounded by those she knew, whose loyalty was forged in battle. The camp was a safe place for her—maybe the first safe place she would experience as she returned from the field with every campaign. 

“Why are you staring at me, Cullen?”

“What? I… I don’t mean to stare, love. You just... look so happy. It’s enchanting.”

She might have blushed, but the fading evening light masked it. “I _am_ happy, Cullen.” She placed her hand on his knee. “Thank you.” A light squeeze, and her hand returned to its task, plucking a bit of hard cheese from the brim of her plate. 

“You should try this.” She held the cheese out to him. “Brian’s family has been making it for years, ages it in caves not far from here. They sell the stuff for good coin in Orlais.”

The older man heard his name, looked up and nodded a smile toward her. “But the Inquisition will always have plenty of it, my lady, and for free. We owe you our lives and livelihood.”

She cast her eyes down and nodded. “We are happy you are all well now, Brian. And that you stand at our side.” She looked up again. “And I’m personally happy that you give me the best cheese in all of Ferelden. Even King Alistair hasn’t had such good cheese!”

The cheese was damned good, and Cullen couldn’t help but to say so.

“Thank you, Ser,” Brian responded flatly, head bowed, before turning back to his own dinner.

“I don’t think they like me here,” Cullen whispered.

Ashara chuckled. “Nah. They’re just fucking with you. Besides, they’re Fereldans. Not exactly a gregarious people.” She winked. 

“Ha ha,” he droned in response. 

She slid closer to him. “They’re also happy to look the other way if the Inquisitor and her Commander disappear alone into a tent. Which they’ve set up just for us. To talk, you know.” She winked and rose from the bench, handing her plate off to Lavinia who reacted as though the Inquisitor had handed her the newborn Trevelyan heir. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d prefer the over-familiarity of Brian and the dwarf or the worshipful genuflecting of the elven woman. Neither was ideal in his eyes, yet somehow this was her setting. 

He let Lavinia take his own empty plate and followed after Ashara to join her in the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are going to be a few short chapters over the next weeks as I post what I wrote during my no-time-to-write-while-also-experiencing-writers'-block period. My buffer between what I'm writing and what I'm posting is getting shorter, so I chopped things up like this not just because I was having a hard time writing stuff but because I was trying to rebuild some of that buffer.
> 
> But off to the lake we go. There's gonna be a lot of relationship/character/non-canon stuff before we get back to the game plot. But... that's basically why we read/write fanfic, right?
> 
> Anyway. Thank you for the messages of support. I don't reply as much as I should, but I want you to know I really appreciate it, especially when the world is being really shitty to everyone. You're all awesome and I'm glad I can give you some enjoyable escapism from your own lives.
> 
> Now I'm going to go add some more to this story so I have something good to post a few weeks from now. :)


	40. Part II. Chapter 21.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed last week. I was on "vacation" (worked the whole time...) and had a nasty head cold (a running theme for me; that's two vacations in a row I've gotten sick!). Just couldn't bring myself to open up the laptop unless I had to for work.

“I’ve been riding my whole life, you know. You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself for losing to me yesterday.” She winked at him over her shoulder.

They’d been riding in silence for some time. He couldn’t shake Lavinia’s words. He would never betray Ashara! He was nothing like the warlord Maferath! He had no political ambitions of his own, he was more than comfortable having a woman as his superior, there wasn’t even anyone, human or divine, for him to be jealous over—as far as he could tell, Ashara didn’t even believe in the Maker.

“Cullen?” She slowed her mount, finally breaking through his angst-ridden internal monologue. “Are you alright? You’re awfully quiet…” Uncertainty crept into her voice and eyes.

_Damnit, Rutherford. You can’t even make a romantic gesture without hurting her in the process._

“My apologies. I’m just a bit… distracted.”

“Well, that I can see. Is there something wrong? Did you get a disturbing report? Should we turn back?”

“No! No… Nothing like that. Just…” He forced a tight smile. “Can’t stop thinking about work, I guess.”

She pursed her lips in a playful pout. “Well, stop it. Inquisitor’s orders.”

“Orders, is it? Then I guess I have no choice but to devote my full attentions to you, my lady.”

She giggled happily. “Now, that I like. Shall we start with a little picnic in a sunny meadow?”

He hadn’t realized that they had ridden into the outskirts of the Arling of Redcliffe, the dense tree cover and rocky soil of the foothills had given way to the wide open spaces that had once been sprawling farmland before fear of Darkspawn had run off everyone the Blight hadn’t immediately claimed. Wildflowers and saplings encroached on fields gone fallow or left to reseed themselves season after season with both wheat and weeds. It was strange to see. And beautiful.

He smiled, warmly this time. “We should probably rest the horses. And I could use a good stretch. And a bite.”

They sat next to one another in the shade of a massive oak, hiding from the midday sun that had more than chased off the morning’s chill. 

“So you grew up here?” she asked, stretching her arms and legs as gracelessly as a small child. 

“I did. Not far from here, actually. We’re about a day’s ride to Redcliffe now. We should arrive at our destination early tomorrow morning if we keep this pace.”

She grinned thoughtfully, taking in their wild surroundings. “I’ve been through here so many times… It’s much nicer this time. Especially to think of it as… part of you. Your history. I don’t know much about your life outside of the Templars.”

“Well... What would you like to know, my lady?” He shifted a bit closer to her so he could catch the long wavy strands that had come free from the loose plait that hung, still damp, down her back. He tucked the strands tenderly behind her ear, earning a sweet look from Ashara the memory of which would be comfort on even the harshest nights.

“Well…” She nibbled her lip as though in deep thought. “I know you have two sisters and a brother. Certainly you weren’t raised by wolves. I’m fairly convinced those rumors about Fereldans aren’t true.”

She laughed at his faked affronted scoff. 

“My parents were farmers. Wheat and corn for market, sometimes eggs and butter when we had an especially good season—taking the crops into Redcliffe every autumn was always a high point. Though I always ended up hiding away from the city noise after a while…” He drifted off in those pleasant memories he’d all but forgotten. “There was a little bookshop near the docks back then. Father always made sure we went. Mia would…” He cut himself off with a laugh as the image came to mind. “Mia would always try to negotiate a deal. She would have bought every book in the place had we the coin. Even without the money, she somehow managed to fill a massive trunk with new books every visit.”

He had loved the smell of the newly-printed pages and the must of old tomes. He would often grab a book from the trunk as soon as he got the chance, hiding away from the rest of the family to read. Years when they had especially good harvests meant longer visits to the city, which in turn meant more time to read in peace. 

“That sounds lovely,” Ashara murmured, resting her hand on his knee. “I always loved getting new books as a kid. And the thought of little, curly-haired Cullen stowed away in the back of a hay cart with a stack of books…” She giggled.

“You laugh, but…” He twisted, reaching over her to squeeze her hip so that their faces were close. She stilled, her breath suddenly shallow, eyes trained on his lips. Lust and pride stirred together in the bit of his belly. “I often ended up with hay stuck in my hair because of it.” His voice cracked.

He swallowed her joyful burst of laughter, pressing forward for more as she melted into the kiss.

Such domestic talk made him oddly desirous. Seeing her smile so much, free of armor and the mantle of Inquisitor gave him hope for their life after the Inquisition was no longer needed. 

She turned into him, giving them a better angle. The hand that had been on his knee slowly crept up his thigh, stopping just shy of the growing tension at the apex of his legs. She broke the kiss, pulling back a fraction of an inch, taking a hushed, slow gasp of breath that drained the blood from his head and left him dizzy. 

She smiled against his lips and laid back on the ground, pulling him down toward her, one hand on his chest, the other reaching up to trail the pads of her gloveless fingers over his cheek. Her whisper-soft touch and the quiet hiss and rush of her breath, accented by the occasional nearly silent whimper, amplified the sensation growing within him. The glowing warmth in his chest expanded, more magical than any lyrium he’d ever drunk. He was at once as large as the world and immediately present in the minutia of their connection. 

He crooked his knee, edging it gently between her thighs. She sighed into his mouth, parting her legs and shifting to welcome his weight. She shifted the leg he hadn’t pinned beneath him raised as she tilted her hips, pressing the heat of her sex against his thigh. 

_Oh, Maker._ He could feel her through their leathers. 

He responded with a roll of his hips that drew a shuddering breath from her. She arched and moaned against him. Her hand tangled in his hair. He gripped her waist, feeling the twitch and ripple of muscle as she writhed.

The dissonant squawks of a flock of crows shattered the moment, reminding them of their context.

“Andraste’s ass!” she cursed between her teeth. “Every time!”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I guess we should be getting back on the road soon anyway…”

They sighed at the same time, eliciting more soft laughter. 

“I don’t think either of us will be able to ride a horse for a little while, though, so…”

He smiled and shook his head at her off-color joke.

“Ashara…” He propped himself on his elbows and caressed her beautiful face. “…You are… the loveliest woman I have ever known.”

She blushed, unable to easily hide her eyes. “Says the most honorable man in Thedas… If you say it, it has to be true, and I can’t…”

He backed off, pulling away from her visible discomfort. “Love…?”

“Sorry. I think I’m going to start crying…”

“I—I’m sorry! What did I—“ He realized she was smiling even as her eyes began flooding with tears. “Oh, Ashara.” He helped her sit up and let her settle against his chest before kissing her on the temple. 

“I’m a mess of a person, Cullen,” she sniffed.

He hugged her close. “No you’re not, love. You are a person. A very brave and noble person who has been through more than anyone ever should.” He found himself fiddling with her hair, untwisting her long braid, and running his fingers through the stretched out curls. “And yet you stand strong every day.” She slumped against him. “Even when you don’t want to.”

He tilted her chin up with his knuckle and kissed her softly.

“And you’ve got me when you can’t be strong.”

Hot tears streaked down her cheeks then. “Sweet talker,” she accused with a squirm. 

He cleared his throat and shook his head. “You’ve called me that more than once. And you’re the only woman in the world who would ever accuse me of that.”

She kissed the tip of his nose and giggled. “Because you say the sweetest things to me.”

“I try,” he admitted.

She let her head fall back with her gentle laughter. “I know. I like it better now that you haven’t rehearsed everything a thousand times in your head until you make yourself too nervous to talk.”

He grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

She nodded, biting her lip. 

He let out a groan. “I’m really not very good at this, am I?”

“You’ve said that before. I didn’t agree then, and I certainly don’t agree now.”

He blushed, averting his eyes, smiling despite himself.

“Cullen Rutherford, you are the most romantic man I’ve ever known! From that first kiss to stargazing in the desert to—to perfumed oils from Orlais! Stolen kisses on the battlements… Watching over me while I was… recovering. Flowers at my bedside—I knew that was you even if you didn’t say anything! And now you’ve got me out here on what I have determined is clearly not Inquisition business…”

When she said it like that... But he stumbled through every step and fumbled for words whenever he tried to let her know how he felt. She had been courted by nobility!

“Stop over-thinking it, my knight.” She stretched up to kiss him on his jaw. “You make me so happy.”

Still blushing, his chest full of warmth, he kissed her back. Her lips were so soft…

They both let out shaking breaths as they parted, bringing back the laughter.

“Where’s that brave, confident general from the battlefield and the war room, hm?” She tickled her nose along his jaw line. “As my advisor you seem so certain, but whenever it’s just the two of us…” She finished the sentence with a light kiss beneath his ear.

He stilled himself with great effort, focusing on the conversation and not the sensations Ashara was carefully provoking. “I’ve had decades of training in battle, my lady. And more experience in war than in… the softer things.”

She pulled back and looked into his eyes, her own crinkled with pity for only a second. “I think we could both use more of the softer things.”

He kissed her fully then, pulling her bottom lip gently between his own, tracing it with the tip of his tongue, savoring the whine rising from her throat. He would be more than happy to be such for her. And to have her in his life seemed to make up for some of the torment he’d suffered.

“Cullen,” she hummed. “You are _really_ good at that.”

“I aim to please, my lady.”

She giggled and gave him a quick peck. “We should probably get back on the road soon if we’re to keep to your schedule…” Her words were edged with dismay. 

He sighed and rubbed his neck. “We really should. Though I could spend the rest of my days right here with you, my lady.” He wrapped his arms around her and slowly inhaled her perfume.

“Mmm… If only there were no war…” The melancholy took over her voice entirely and she slumped against him.

“But—“ She straightened and pulled herself to her feet. “At least we have this time alone together.”

“That we do,” he mused, joining her and sweeping her long, loose hair over her shoulders. “And I still have something to show you.”

She cocked her head and grinned coquettishly. “I guess you do.”

He kissed the spot between Ashara’s eyebrows, where the furrows of the Inquisitor would have been, chuckling deep in his throat. “I have many things yet to show you, my lady. All in due time.” He winked, barely holding his composure through the boldness of his flirting.

She bit her lip and narrowed her sparkling eyes.

“But first,” he hurried on, “we have plenty of road yet to cover.”

“Are we speaking in metaphor?” She winked as she loosed her horse’s reins from the low branch where she’d tied them. 

This time, his response was more typical: stuttering half-words and mumbled curses at his slow wit.

She laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and hoisted her light pack onto her shoulder. “And that wasn’t even that good! Confidence, Cullen! You’re a sweet talker who can kiss my breath away. Why are you afraid of a little banter?” She bumped him with her hip before leading Ser Noodles back to the road.

He followed just behind her, feeling like a bumbling Chantry boy. Something she’d stopped calling him ages ago… Considering how she seemed to think of the Chantry at this point that might have been a dual blessing. 

With that thought, the source of his insecurity shifted back to his meditations on Maferath. Did Lavinia really think he would betray Ashara? The young woman seemed to hang on every word the Inquisitor said, sought nothing more than to serve Her Holiness. Such devotion… Did she see something he didn’t?

_Nonsense. There’s nothing there to see. I am nothing like Maferath._

Come to think of it, though, none of her friends really seemed to like him. Sera always watched him side-eyed and suspicious. Blackwall had few words for him. Solas seemed to glare at him whenever he walked through the solarium the hermit had taken as his own.

_What are you thinking, Rutherford? Vivienne sent up strawberries—out of season! Dorian treats you almost as a brother. Cassandra is one of your own dearest friends. Bull trades training notes. Varric regularly checks on you. You’re being paranoid. You’re letting that neurotic elf get into your head._

“I can hear you brooding, Cullen. Are you alright?”

As he came back to himself, he realized that they had already walked a mile and he hadn’t said a word. Had she been talking to him?

“I—I’m sorry. I’m just distracted.”

“You said that before. Are you sure everything is alright? Do you want to return? I know our work must come first…”

_Maybe skipping out on work to take Ashara to the lake is just the same as betraying her. If you’re not keeping an eye on everything because you selfishly want some time alone with the Inquisitor…_

“No!” he stated with more force and finality than was necessary for the conversation he was actually having.

She startled at his exclamation. 

He sighed, exacerbated with himself as ever. “I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time letting something go. It’s really nothing.” He tried to smile reassuringly, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

She watched his face, slowing her pace. “If you say so. But you know you can talk to me, right? If something’s bothering you? I want to be here for you like you are for me. You get to be human too, Cullen.” She stopped, accentuating her statement.

The sincerity in her words was undeniable and assuaged his anxiety for the moment. 

“I mean it, Cullen. I care for you. Quite a lot.” She tipped up on her toes to brush a kiss against his stubbled cheek. "And if we’re going to do… this, it has to be as equals. You’re the first man to ever treat me like I have value beyond a noble name and a cunt. Let me be for you at least as much as you are to me?”

The harsh language, centered in such bitter vulnerability, twisted his guts with nearly physical pain. “Ashara! You… you are so much to me, and give me strength I can’t describe… I’m just… not great at… talking about… things. It wasn’t something the Templars necessarily encouraged.”

“I guess not,” she acquiesced, touching his cheek. “But if you ever want to try… I don’t want you to think you have to deal with everything alone. Just like with the lyrium… I’m here.” 

They stood in the middle of the road for a moment, eyes locked, before she stepped back and began walking again, Ser Noodles following behind. Her words still sat heavily inside him.

“What about Aly?” he asked after a few strides.

“Aly?”

“You said I was the first to treat you like you had value…”

“Oh…” She didn’t meet his gaze, watching her feet instead. “Aly was sweet… But I knew… You know, Jamila thought I was an idiot, falling for her brother. But I couldn’t help it. She really didn’t like me at first. She’s really smart, Cullen. She’s not a seer, but she’s very well-known and respected in Dairsmuid. Like a… a magistrate, almost. We became friends after a while, but most of the letters she wrote me had… they were almost condescending, but not mean? Like she was trying to tell me that Aly didn’t feel as strongly for me as I did for him…” 

She sighed heavily. 

“Of course, I didn’t pick up on it. I was such a mess. You think I’m bad now? Ha!” She shook her head at her younger self. “I was so convinced that I had to make someone a good wife. Even after I rejected all of that and left Ostwick, that stupid crap stayed with me. I was determined to hitch myself to a man—but for love, not status. …I wanted to be loved… And I convinced myself that it was there….

“It’s been two years… It took that long, and the attentions of a remarkable man, to make me see that, while Aly was gentle and respectful, he had no intentions of ever being more than my lover when I was in town.”

Her eyes were wet with tears again. He wanted to kiss them away, but she quickly changed the subject.

“Those bushes over there look like the flowers you brought me!” 

Once he recovered from the whiplash, he noticed them. Indeed, huge peony bushes grew along the road here. Most of the flowers were dead and gone by now, but one defiantly white runt of a late blossom stood proudly out against its shriveled kin. He indulged himself, plucking the bloom from the plant and bringing it to his nose.

“Peonies,” he explained. “Someone planted them in the garden at Skyhold. They grow wild in this part of Ferelden. My mother used to grow the biggest flowers in Honnleath—she could get good silver with the bouquets if the summer didn’t get too hot.”

He tucked the flower behind her ear.

“They’re my favorite.” He stroked her cheek. “Seeing them now always makes me happy. Reminder of a simpler time. When I dreamed of love.”

He didn’t mean to say that last bit. His furious blush probably gave that away.

But she blushed too, and lowered her eyes for a second before looking at him through her lashes. “And you picked some for me when you got back from Caer Oswin…”

“Mm hm.” He couldn’t articulate more than that.

Her smile spoke enough for both of them.


	41. Part II. Chapter 22.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed my Sunday post--again. My partner had to head up to Philly for the week for the DNC yesterday, so I was distracted by all of that.

He’d practically told her he loved her. But it was still hard to admit to himself, and the thought of saying the actual words created an apple-sized lump in his throat.

She kept her hair down the whole afternoon, some of the braid-flattened curls springing back to life as they rode. He wondered what it would feel like to tangle his fingers in that wild mane while she arched and strained beneath him. Their interrupted lunchtime dalliance had left him in need, made him more curious. Seductive images kept cropping up in his head, untainted by his Kinloch trauma--just her, just him, just their lust and affection.

Their conversation had been light and insignificant since their blushing smiles. The runtish peony, slightly wilted now, reminding them both of the brief conversation as their ride went on toward sunset. They’d continued to smile and blush their way through the awkward transition from that moment, settling on talk of the intimate little nothings of their blooming relationship.

He struggled not to stare at the sway of her hips when they walked the horses into a clearing where they would make camp. The rhythmic swell and flow of her body beneath the soft, thin layers of lambskin and ram's wool teased him, pulling like a divining rod to water. 

It was late now; there could be little progress made toward their destination in the dark. Ashara, though trying to hide it, was clearly tiring from the exercise. She still had a lot of recovery yet before she would be her old self. The surgeon had insisted she take a break from Dorian’s tonics and salves to let her body’s own natural healing processes do their work lest she lose the ability to heal on her own. Cullen suspected the validity of the surgeon’s argument, desirous as he was to have his love back to health, but the very possibility that she might be weakened in the long run had beaten that need back. 

“Are you sure you’re doing alright? I don’t want to tire you out.” There were other ways he’d prefer to see her tired out…

“A bit tired,” she murmured. “It’s been a long day. A long, lovely day.” She grinned over at him. “I think I’m ready for a long… lovely rest…” She giggled as she set about securing their horses and settling them for the night. 

He smiled to himself as he set about starting a campfire, recognizing the obvious allusion she’d playfully skirted. Let her think he was an innocent Chantry boy; as an adolescent initiate to the Templar order, he’d grown (if not comfortable) familiar with euphemism and veiled flirtation.

She sidled up beside him and crouched at his side. “So did you intend for us to camp alone tonight or are we behind on the schedule?”

He grinned sheepishly as he straightened up, not meeting her eyes, suddenly nervous about his decision. Was he rushing things, trying to move forward too quickly? She’d basically admitted to being vulnerable in love, and taking her out here for a night alone… Would she think he was trying to take advantage of her?

The thought curdled in his gut. 

“N-no! I… Y-yes, but… It’s not that I—I don’t mean to… to imply anything. Or pressure! I don’t… Maker’s breath, Ashara. I’m sorry…”

She looked at him, startled. “Cullen…” Her lips wrapped slowly around each honeyed syllable. She bit back a slow grin. “It’s alright. I don’t expect anything. I’m just teasing you.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the smoldering kindling. “But you know I won’t say no if you…” She moved in close enough that he could smell the leather of her new riding breeches. “…wanted? To… imply something…” 

She giggled and kissed him quickly. “Maker’s breath, Cullen. What’s gotten into you? You’ve been so quiet and strange all day, and now you’re acting like a Chantry boy about sex… Is everything… okay?” The bottom dropped out of her voice and the uncertainty in her eyes belied her smile.

_Shit. You’ve done it again, Rutherford._

“Everything’s… fine,” he half-lied. 

_Lying to the Inquisitor now? Lying to Ashara?_

He sighed. “I’ve just… been thinking.” He stepped back and returned to stoking the wisp of a campfire.

“About what?” She stayed back, let him have his space.

How to explain this?

“Jamila… said something when I returned from Caer Oswin—“

“Before or after my little outburst about the Chantry?” she murmured, regretfully, he noticed.

“Er… before… Why?”

She grimaced. “Don’t worry about—I… I was worried that I’d sounded a bit… well, unhinged. I…” She inhaled slowly, as though trying to decide if she wanted to finish her statement. “But I guess you knew my family was going to dump me on the Chantry… Which I really didn’t want. The Inquisition isn’t the first time I’ve been accused of heresy…”

His eyebrows flew up involuntarily.

“I was a dumb kid. I said a lot of ridiculous things. No one could have ever taken them seriously—the elven gods are real and still alive; Andraste was a mage; oh, all kinds of nonsense. But since then, there have been a few clerics and a Revered Mother in Ostwick who… I think they’re the ones who found out about me supporting the Rivaini mages. One of them intercepted a letter to my Templar cousin or something, then convinced the Chantry to march.” She shook her head. “I know it’s ridiculous… But…”

He raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Ashara, you are _not_ to blame for what the Chantry did in Dairsmuid.”

She looked at him, eyes wet with tears.

“Ashara, what the Chantry did in Rivain was horrific. You were a victim as well. You are not to blame.” He couldn't put enough emphasis on the words.

She twisted her mouth in a wry, unbelieving smile and didn’t look at him.

“Jamila told me… That you’ve never really been… treated very well. And that… that some have taken advantage of that…”

She stiffened and wrapped her arms around her midsection, hunching her shoulders in a primordial, defensive position. 

“I… I don’t want to do to you what… what others have. I don’t want you to feel like… I am.”

She wandered a few feet away, staring at the ground. There was an uncharacteristic heaviness to her energy suddenly, like the anchor of years had suddenly moored her to that unpleasantness. 

_Shit._

He searched desperately for words. What could the right response possibly be? He’d just revealed that he knew what was apparently her most painful secret, and that he found out without her knowledge or consent. 

_Shit._

“Ashara…”

She stopped walking away but did not turn to face him yet.

“Ashara, I’m sorry. I—“

Her voice was low, flat. “Don’t apologize, Cullen. You’ve done nothing wrong… I just… I didn’t want to think about all that right now.”

He’d ruined the escape he’d intended to give her.

_Shit._

“I’m so sorry, love, I didn’t mean to remind you of…”

She turned and took his hands but still avoided his eyes. “Do you want to know? She probably mentioned Mephystus…”

He nodded, studying her face, trying to get some clue as to how to move forward. “She did. But you don’t have to tell me. We can just focus on enjoying ourselves?”

Another tight, mirthless grin. “Now that it’s out there…” She squeezed his hands as though bracing him for a shock. “How about we pitch the tent and get some food over this fire and then I’ll tell you.”

He nodded his assent and they set to work, his guts twisting the whole time. How deep was the wound he had just salted?

***** ** *** **** * * ***

She was nearly silent as she went about her work, avoiding eye contact. He watched her obsessively, berating himself for causing this. She had been alone, unloved, unprotected her entire life. He had sworn to himself over and over that he would protect her, had come to love her…

_Love._

The word kept coming across his mind. He did love her. He knew this.

At least he thought so.

Jamila’s revelation, followed by Lavinia’s warning, had his heart, mind, and gut twisted into an unmanageable knot. 

Ashara was so vulnerable, hungry as she was for love. He was ready to provide that love—more love than she could have ever dreamed of—but was he just taking advantage of that vulnerability? He was so far from worthy of her. Were she not so lonely and afraid, she would surely see that…

In seeking her heart, was he endangering her? In all his weakness, would he fail her, leave her exposed to danger like he had in Haven—he knew the position wasn’t defensible against any real military force, his affections for her and his desire to purge himself of the lyrium demons…. If her need for love wasn’t so strong, she would never have let him continue on his selfish path. He would only ever hurt her…

Lavinia’s words made it seem inevitable… 

Maferath had betrayed Andraste. He’d sworn her his love, his hearth, his blade and shield, yet had betrayed her. Out of jealousy of her power and position, of her love for the Maker and the people, he had let the bride of the Maker, the hero of Thedas, burn. 

Was he betraying her to Corypheus through all of this? Making her weak? Handing her off to the enemy? He’d sacrificed her once in Haven already. He’d let her—practically ordered her to stay behind while they all escaped. He should have been there. He should have been the one left behind, not the woman who seemed to be touched by the Maker. He had betrayed her to be burned… He had watched her burn…

_Nonsense._

Cullen was sworn to protect Ashara. As her Commander and as her lover. He would never let anything hurt her. The very idea of betraying her to the enemy… 

“Everything alright?” she called out, startled by the loud sound of his dagger chopping savagely through the sausages he was separating.

He snapped back to the present. “Fine,” he croaked from a tight throat.

She gave him a moment of a worried look before turning back to tying down the last stake for their tent.

“Mind if I wash up? I hate sitting down to eat when I still smell like the road.”

“Of course. Go ahead.” It had been a hot afternoon. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to wash away the dust and sweat. He would have joined her beside the stream had he thought it appropriate. As it was, he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line that shouldn’t even have been toed. 

He sighed and stared at the food before him. Crusty bread, cheese, hard sausages—simple but filling. Food he would have been happy to get when he was hunting apostates in these same hills as a Templar recruit, but not the kind of meal the Inquisitor should be given by her lover during a special trip.

But his mother had a special trick she’d used at the end of long winters when they were all but out of fresh food… He dragged a griddle over the glowing embers and dropped a lump of lard into its center.

By the time Ashara returned to the fireside, the sandwiches were nearly finished, crispy and brown, melting cheese oozing from the edges.

“What’s this?” she chirped, artificially cheerful but sincerely curious.

“A little Fereldan farmers’ secret,” he responded, edging the sandwiches onto a platter with his knife. “I… wanted to…” He sighed, tongue-tied again in his anxiety. “I thought you might like it.”

She settled beside him, the length of her thigh a hairsbreadth apart from his. He wasn’t expecting such closeness after kicking an emotional wasps’ nest. 

“That’s really sweet, Cullen. Thank you.” She leaned her weight against him in something like an embrace before taking a sandwich and biting into it enthusiastically. “Oh!”

Strands of cooling cheese trailed from her mouth as she frantically waved her hand in front of her mouth. “Hot!”

_Damnit, Rutherford. You could have warned her._

“S-sorry! They’re still hot!” He scrambled for his water skin, uncorking it and offering it to her.

“I probably should have thought about that,” she laughed before swallowing gulps of water. “But this is really good! Thanks.”

They ate quietly. He was too nervous to make more than a couple seconds of eye contact throughout the meal.

“So where should I begin?” she asked, moments after finishing the sandwich, wiping her greasy fingers off on her breeches.

“Where…? Um—You should… Wherever you want? You don’t have—“

“Cullen, it’s alright. I want to tell you. So what if the timing is different than I’d planned?”

He struggled to wrap his mind around the cruelty she’d been subjected to. It wasn’t just arranged marriages for status her parents had subjected her to. In their pursuit for position within the Chantry and Marcher society, they’d actually tried to sell her after too many marriage arrangements fell through. The men she’d been betrothed to, with one exception who later showed himself the one to prove the rule, had been rapacious, venal men, sometimes violent. Her acting out to keep free from the Chantry had only made it worse. 

“I was naïve,” she explained. “I honestly thought there was something to all the flowery promises and gifts from Mephystus. I didn’t expect…” She paused, searching for the words, then seemed to give up.

“He’s why I can’t… can’t ever… have children.”

She looked up at him as though awaiting something negative. His heart only broke.

“I didn’t think I wanted to be a mother… not after my own family… But… but, no, I still don’t think I want to have children, but having that choice taken away from me…” 

She exhaled slowly, shakily. “It still sits heavily… in here.” She tapped her chest. “That I was so foolish and innocent. Isabela saved me. Many others, that day. But I had no family or clan to go back to like the others he was planning to take to Tevinter to sell. So I joined her.

“Two stories for the price of one,” she concluded with chipper irony. 

The sun was long gone by the time she finished, but with both moons nearly full and shining brightly across from one another in the star-filled sky, he could still make out every emotion as it played across each feature of her face.

“I… I’m so sorry, my love. I… I’m so sorry you had to live through all that. That he did those things to you…” The thought of a young, innocent Ashara being so cruelly manipulated and abused twisted his stomach and heart like the fibers of a rope.

“It’s in the past now…” she whispered, staring into the glowing coals that were all that remained of their fire. “And, besides… It led me here…” She turned, grabbed his hands. “To you.”

“That there has been so much pain leading up to us coming together… It…” He shook his head, unsure what he wanted to say. “It’s not right…” He scoffed at his ineloquence. “But…”

She reached up and crushed her mouth against his. “But I’m glad it did… That it led to this… to us meeting, I mean. I can’t imagine going through all of this without you at my side…” she whispered against his lips, her forehead pressed to his.

He cupped her jaw in his hands and tried to memorize her face before he spoke again. “As your Commander, Inquisitor, I will always stand behind you. And as your friend and your lover, Ashara, I will always stand by your side.”

He spoke them simply enough, but the words came from his soul, and he spoke them not only to her but against that dark voice that constantly whispered doubt and shame to his subconscious.

She kissed him again then stood, hand out-stretched to him. “That’s enough melodrama then, hm? Let’s settle the camp and get some sleep. That was exhausting, and I want to get up early in the morning—I’m excited to see what it is you want to show me!”

He took a moment to recover from the rapid transition in mood—a favorite dodge of hers, apparently—before joining her in cleaning up and making the last preparations needed for the night.

The tent was close, their bedrolls laid out side-by-side. The night would bring a chill--enough of an excuse for the intimacy to him, though her grin told him that she too was looking forward to the time alone, even if the mood may have changed somewhat.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing such close quarters,” she said softly as she crawled into the tent beside him. “I don’t want to push you faster than you’re… comfortable… but, we’ve shared a bed more than once and didn’t think…” She trailed off, picking at invisible lint on her blankets.

“Not at all,” he whispered, suddenly hoarse. “But after what you shared… Are you sure? I don’t want to…” They were right back to the artificial weirdness he’d stirred up earlier. 

“Cullen, it’s only weird if you make it weird.” She was joking, but he could hear the truth in her words. 

He sighed, exasperated once more with himself. “I’m sorry. I… I’ve just made such a mess of everything in my life before now, and… And you’ve been hurt too many times. I cannot help but feel as though I’m going to… to hurt you, mess this all up somehow. I feel like a druffalo in a glassblower's shop sometimes.”

She slid close to him and gripped his arm fiercely. “Cullen. You could never hurt me the way others have. You are a good man. Mephystus was not. The men my parents tried to… to sell me to were not. The men in my family…” She scoffed bitterly. “You are nothing like those men, Cullen. I know you. I trust you.”

That hurt. It shouldn’t have hurt.

_She shouldn’t trust me._

_\--Why not?!_

She cut off the argument he was about to start with himself. “I can see the doubt in your eyes even in the dark, Cullen. Stop.” She pressed her lips gently to his.

He sighed in lieu of an answer and lay back on the lumpy bedroll. She was too good to him. Too good for him. He could see her out of the corner of his eye as she laid down beside him, on her side, watching him as he tried to torture himself. The wide-eyed sympathy she aimed at him wouldn’t let the old pattern settle in enough for his normal nightly routine. It would be a long night.

“Stop.”

He looked at her and felt his chest expand. “Ashara… I am a broken man—“

“We’re all broken, Cullen.” 

“Yes, but…” 

_I will betray you. Never intentionally, but somehow…_

She propped herself up on her elbow and looked pointedly down at him. “Cullen, I swear to the Maker… You have to stop this. You’re going to drive yourself crazy. You’re a good man. You’re an excellent general. You’re my sanctuary and my warmth. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” 

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She draped an arm across his stomach and snuggled close to him to rest her head on his chest. She was warm, soft, strong, smelled like summer, and made him feel something he’d never felt before.

“Alright,” he finally responded. “But you have to stop beating yourself up too.”

“Deal,” she yawned before drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo this is the last of the prewritten chapters! I'll be posting new chapters as they're written, but probably no more than once a week, though probably much less frequently. Good thing about the wifey being in Philly is that I'll have more time to write. I'll try not to let y'all down too much!


	42. Part II. Chapter 20.

She sliced off a sliver of apple and held it up for him. 

“They always leave me a little something sweet,” she explained as he sat on the edge of a cot. “I love sweets.”

“Me too,” he said, taking the slice of fruit. “They really like you.”

She yawned luxuriously. “They like that the Inquisition saved them.”

“Yes, but they are loyal to you personally, as well.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Yes… Though I much prefer to think it’s because we’ve hunted dinner together and shared casks of ale after long days. Not because… Because I was named Inquisitor.”

_“Named Inquisitor”…_

“Ashara, you _are_ Inquisitor. You…”

“Not here. Not right now.” She rose from the chair where she’d been sitting and joined him on the cot, the length of her thigh pressed to his. “Tonight, in this camp, I’m Ashara Ceridwen. ‘Lady Trevelyan’ to a couple of Orlesians who’ve been stationed here temporarily at times, but… Just Ashara for you at least?” Her eyes shone in the dim lantern light.

He turned and cupped her cheek. “You are always Ashara. And just as inspiring and admirable as ‘the Inquisitor’, with or without a title.”

She scoffed at that, turning her face downward. “I don’t know about all that, Cullen. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Done a lot of stupid shite. …Hurt a lot of people…” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this will make up for all of those bad decisions. Can I ever fully atone?” When she looked up, there were tears.

“Ashara…” He turned her face gently upwards and kissed her bitten lips. “We’ve all made mistakes. We’ve all… hurt people. But you are doing what no other can.” He kissed her again. “Whatever wrongs you think you’ve done, you’ve more than atoned.” He whispered the words with vehemence.

She sighed and lowered her face again. He pressed his lips to her forehead. 

“Do you hear those words yourself when you say them, Cullen?”

_What?_ He looked at her, confused.

“I see you torturing yourself all the time. But you don’t deserve such rebuke as you pile upon yourself. You are a good man, Cullen Stanton Rutherford. A man I am proud to call my Commander.” Now she held his face in her hands, her own whispered voice earnest and immediate. “My friend. My… lover.” 

She must have blushed again, but she hid it by kissing him firmly.

They sat for a moment, brows pressed together, touching one another’s faces and hands with reassuring intimacy.

“Thank you, Cullen.”

“You’re… welcome, Ashara.” He offered a warm smile and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Your name doesn’t sound particularly Marcher… Is your family from elsewhere?”

She laid her head on his shoulder and pulled her knees to her chest, looking as though she were perched on the edge of the cot. “Mm. My father’s side traces back to Tevinter, way back. The name Trevelyan basically means ‘Elyan’s farm’. I don’t know if they were farmers back in Tevinter or if the name started in Ostwick. Trevelyan is one of those part-Tevinter, part-southern names you hear a lot of in certain circles in the Marches. My mom’s side…” She let out a crude laugh. “Pretty much all Fereldan, believe it or not.”

“Really?”

“Mm.” She smiled up at him. “It’s been ages since they lived there, but they’re from northern Ferelden somewhere. My first name is actually based on an old Alamarri legend—Athdara. She was a great warrior. Ironic, isn’t it? But even though the old ways are still… present on the part of the estate that belonged to my mother’s ancestors—wolf carvings, strange-looking statues, murals depicting the old tales—it’s covered up pretty strongly by Chantry nonsense.”

He felt himself wince at “Chantry nonsense”. 

“Honestly, I think all the pious bullshit is just a lame attempt to cover up my mother’s heathen roots, and my father’s Tevinter heritage. My father’s family doesn’t even know—at least I don’t think they do—about the Alamarri animist roots, and my parents—especially my father—wanted to keep it that way. So they changed the spelling so it sounds more… Northern, I guess. They didn’t bother with my second name, though. The tale of the Alamarri sorceress Ceridwen is little known north of the Waking Sea. Mother always played it off as a northern Fereldan name meaning “holy song” so it sounded pious.” She let out a bitter huff. “I was to be their holy warrior, one way or another… I just don’t think they ever knew what it was they warred against…”

He stared at her in fascination. “I… I didn’t realize… That is, I had no idea you were part Fereldan,” he tried, leaving his other questions for later.

She smiled warmly at him. “I am. At least in my name. And my love of dogs. We always had them around. They would run with the horses and protected the houses.” The smile grew wistful. “Someday I’d like to have a dog again. A great, big one. Like a mabari.” She laughed to herself. “A big, warm, smart Fereldan warhound who can make me smile and feel safe.”

His weird reaction to her off-hand denigration of the Chantry was forgotten.

She was clearly flirting with him. He pulled her into a full embrace, leaning back against the short headboard of the cot. She followed him, curling against his side and resting her head on his chest. 

“That sounds nice,” he mused into her hair. “Would you want a farm too?”

She hummed a low sound of contemplation. “No… I don’t think I would want something anchoring me down like that. I’d like to travel a bit with my big, sweet doggy and spend as much of the rest of my life just being happy with him without worrying about crops and breeding calendars and all that comes with having a farm… Maybe even stay at Skyhold if we can. Just… Doing good things… like now… but without the end of the world hanging over our heads. Just me and my mabari… That would be perfect.”

His chest swelled. _Maker, let her be referring to me._ “That sounds lovely.”

“Mm…”

He stared at the canvas above him, and didn’t even realize she’d fallen asleep, fully clothed, until he tried to move into a more comfortable position.

***** ***** *****

They awoke, both still wearing their traveling clothes and boots, just as the sun was coming up. 

Ashara sat up, stretched and grimaced. “Ow. And good morning.”

He reached out to caress her face, enjoying the sleepy comfort and quiet intimacy of the morning. It felt like it had been forever since he’d woken in a woman’s bed, though he’d so recently held Ashara through the night. But she had been at death’s door then. This morning she was…

“Sorry about… falling asleep on you last night. I must have been more tired than I thought. That was my first ride since the Emprise.” She smiled and leaned back down to kiss him. “And there’s an inappropriate joke to be made there,” she murmured against his lips. 

He groaned and wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Too early for that, love,” he chuckled, his mood better than it had been in… years.

She may still be a bit weak from her injuries, but she was certainly herself, awkward, off-color jokes and all.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the frizzed curls tickling his nose. “How are you this morning? I worried that perhaps that race was too much.”

She nuzzled her face against his chest, and kissed the bare skin above his open collar. “Hmm? Maybe… I certainly slept like a stone last night. Though I think I feel alright now.” She sat up and unwound herself slowly, as though testing each joint and muscle. “Mm… Yeah, I’ll be alright. Sore, but nothing seems out of place.” She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Long ride ahead of us today?”

“A day on the road, but then we’ll be there the morning of the day after.” He smiled, thinking about the lake, how beautiful she would look by the water, happy and relaxed. “And no mountains from here on, so we’ll take it easy today. No races.”

She pouted and smiled at the same time. “Oh fine. Sore loser.” A wink.

“I am not a sore loser,” he said, pulling himself from the bed. “I can’t be a sore loser, because I didn’t lose. You cheated.”

“I did not cheat, Cullen. There were no rules!” She stuck her tongue out at him and began to unwind her braids.

He hated that she was right. Technically. From now on, he would have to announce the rules every time. 

_You’re a fool, Rutherford._

He laughed at himself. He was a fool. And he didn’t mind. Not when it was for her. He would lasso the moons together for her.

That realization settled deep and warm in the pit of his stomach, a weighty, comfortable sensation.

“Why are you smiling at me like that?”

Had he been--? 

“Ah! I um… I—nothing. You just look especially lovely this morning, is all.”

She blushed and smiled shyly. “Flatterer.” 

She stood, shaking her hair loose, and kissed him on the cheek.

“I’m going to go wash up. I hate falling asleep after a long ride without a bath. Want to see about breakfast? Brian usually fries up something nice. Make sure he’s got coffee too?”

She was out of the tent faster than he would have thought possible. He stumbled out behind her into the fuzzy light of morning. In this part of Ferelden, late summer meant an early-morning chill that warned of the harsh winter approaching. It felt like each cool breath was cleansing his lungs and guts of something he hadn’t realized was there. He felt ten years younger this morning. Like he hadn’t been through the Void in the last decade or so.

The camp was still quiet, but as Ashara had indicated, Brian was back at the fire, setting up a massive griddle that looked far too heavy for someone so thin to handle so easily. Cullen knew better than to ask the rural Fereldan if he needed help.

“Morning.”

Brian grunted his response.

Well, so much for pleasantries. 

“Ashara asked me to see that you make coffee this morning,” he ventured, trying to combine his Commander voice with an attempt at unassuming farm boy charm. “She loves the stuff in the morning,” he added.

Brian eyed him over his preparations for half a second, unmistakably skeptical of the man the Inquisitor was traveling with. “She’ll have her coffee,” he growled. 

“Thank you.” Cullen couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he didn’t, retreating instead to the hitching post where the horses were tied out. 

The Forders were gorgeous animals, though they probably paled in comparison to the glorious warhorses for which the Trevelyan family was famed. He grinned a bit, knowing Ashara had chosen a simple Fereldan mount over something more ostentatious or impressive. She liked Fereldan horses, Fereldan dogs… maybe Fereldan ex-Templars?

“So why does she call you Ser Noodles?” he muttered to the tawny stallion. The beast nickered in response, much to his amusement. “Talkative one, are you?” Ser Noodles responded again, this time jerking his head up and down. Cullen chuckled and scratched the horse’s ears.

“He likes sweets, too,” a soft voice piped up behind him. “Just like his mistress.”

Lavinia, the timid elf, approached him with an old apple in her hand. “Here. If you want to feed him. Her Holiness likes to treat the horses whenever she can.” She smiled nervously and offered up the wrinkled fruit.

Of course Ashara liked to spoil the animals. As much as she spoiled him with her affection…

He took the apple cautiously, concerned that he might terrify the shrinking woman if he moved too quickly, and held it in the flat of his hand for the horse. Ser Noodles blinked at him a few times then took the apple gently before crunching the thing with all the grace of a hungry horse, bits of apple falling from its mouth and sticking to his muzzle.

Lavinia gave a surprisingly loud snort of a laugh. “He’s not the most polite of creatures, Ser Noodles.” She offered another apple to Cullen’s mare, which was a much better mannered diner.

“You will be good to her, right?”

What? He looked at her, startled by the seemingly uncharacteristic boldness of the question.

“The Lady Inquisitor. You will be good to her. Keep her safe. Love her.” This time it wasn’t a question.

She continued, her voice surprisingly steady and pointed. “We all know she’ll defeat the Elder One and return the Maker’s peace to Thedas. But you must protect her heart. Love is too precious to play at when so much is at stake. If you don’t love her, you mustn’t let her think you do. And you must accept your role as her supporter, not seek your own victories and glory through her. You must not do anything that might endanger her. If you don’t love her, you should let her go or you’ll be the death of her.” 

He blinked at her. It almost sounded like… Was she comparing him to Maferath? Maker’s breath! He could never…

“Oh! Lady Inquisitor! Your Holiness! Your mounts are ready when you are, ser!” The bowing and scraping elf returned with the Inquisitor’s appearance at their side.

“Thank you, Lavinia. We’ll head out shortly. Please have some breakfast before you do anything else for me?”

“Of course, Your Holiness!” She retreated like a frightened mouse.

“I smell bacon,” Ashara said to him, twisting water from her lank curls. “And coffee. Hope you’re hungry.”

His stomach answered in song, making her laugh and him blush.

“Come on, my big Fereldan war-hound. Let’s get some chow in you before we head back out.”

He caught the direct reference. His joy temporarily crowded out the horror Lavinia’s words had sown.


	43. Part II. Chapter 23.

Part II. Chapter 23.

_Blood magic._

His mind had seized on the detail she’d tried to brush aside in her telling, and he couldn’t get that part of her story out of his mind now that she’d fallen asleep. Mephystus had used blood magic to sterilize women he’d intended to sell. The whole thing was horrific, but knowing that she, too, had been touched by that evil…

_Never again_ , he thought. He may have left the Templars and come a long way in his views of magic and those who could wield it, but blood magic… And used not just in pursuit of power but with the intention of harming innocents to be used and sold in an even crasser version of the way her family had tried to use and sell her.

It was no surprise then that she cried so easily, he realized. She must be in a constant state of mental turmoil, such that anything that evoked emotion was overwhelming. And the rarity of genuine affection must only make her feel uncertain and vulnerable.

He couldn’t shake it. It replaced his usual nightly self-torture. The peaceful expression on her sleeping face seemed so out of place, now that he knew.

_I will protect you, love. I will never let anyone touch you with blood magic ever again. I will never let anyone manipulate you or take advantage of your gentle heart._

He held her as close, as tightly as he could without disturbing her rest, and pressed his lips to her forehead over and over again.

“I swear my sword and shield to you, Ashara,” he whispered into the dark, echoing the words of the oath he’d sworn to the Chantry and meaning it just as much as he had back then. “My strength and skill are yours. I will protect and defend you always.”

***** ***** ***** *****

He awoke confused; something was wrong.

“Cull-- … Cullen!” Ashara twitched against his side where she was curled. She whimpered and struggled against something imaginary—or at least invisible to him.

His brain came to quickly and he tried to comfort her with gentle caresses and whispered assurances. “It’s okay, Ashara. You’re safe. I’m here. Shh…”

Her muscles clenched tightly and a distressed syllable squeaked from her throat before she fell still again. He held his breath, waiting for her to wake or take up battle again, but she must have slipped her demon. 

Sleep wouldn’t return so easily for him, though. He waited a few minutes to be sure she was truly asleep before slipping out into the dewy early dawn. He wrapped his cloak around himself and tried to take a deep, slow breath. It was still dark, but a cool, damp wind warned him of the day’s approaching weather. Hopefully they’d be able to make it to the lake before the storms let loose.

The wind loosened his chest and carried away some of his angst.

He’d only recently grown to appreciate the beauty and odd quiet of storms. For years, the noise and flashing lightening reminded him too much of Kinloch. Oddly enough, it was the storms in Kirkwall right after… 

…The day he took control of his life…

That’s what it really was. The thought startled him even as it soothed the ragged edges of guilt and shame he’d felt since leaving the Templars. The day he took up his blade against Meredith, the day he opened his eyes and let himself fully understand what he was seeing, had been party to all those years. 

Whether brought on by Orsino’s use of blood magic or simply the erratic weather patterns along the shores of the Waking Sea, the storms that washed the blood from Kirkwall’s streets that night were more powerful than any he’d seen since. While it had made quick work of the ghastly errand of cleaning the courtyard of the Gallows, the rain made the sheer amount and difficulty of work to be done particularly obvious. He’d thrown himself into that work without complaint or second thought, letting the exhaustion of hard physical and mental labor drag him into the shallows of sleep every night, stuffing down the horror of what he’d just been through with requisitions, construction, and logistics. 

Then Cassandra arrived. 

And he joined the Inquisition…

He looked back toward the tent where Ashara was sleeping off her nightmare. An involuntary smile pulled at his lips.

Maybe if it stormed today it would mark another new beginning.

He dropped his gaze to the ground immediately, as though to hide his blushing face from himself. One light breeze and he was feeling optimistic and hopeful like he hadn’t in years—decades, really. 

It was nice.

He let that lightness remain, refusing for the time to let the outside world, his usual anxiety and suspicion, take the shine off the moment. The insecurity and self-loathing that usually shaded his thoughts and tainted his interactions with Ashara could stay in the background for now. He was going to…

…What was he going to do, really? 

He laughed as he stooped down to revive the remaining few embers of their evening’s fire. 

_What are you going to do, Rutherford? You’ve got her here. Now what? What are you going to say? How are you going to explain this?_

He shook his head and struck his flint, the sparks struggling to catch the night-damp kindling.

_I’ll think of something. No over-thinking it this time._ He wouldn’t bother with rehearsals and trying to perfect the words. It only ever made things worse—and she would almost certainly catch him running through his lines in his head. 

The sun was just over the horizon and he was finally making some headway with the fire when she crawled out of the tent, hair mussed and eyes squinty. He had to hide a smile at the sight. Maker, she was beautiful.

She huddled up against him, seeking warmth he gladly gave her by welcoming her into the folds of his cloak, roomier without the bulk of his armor. 

“Good morning, love,” he murmured into the gilded cloud resting on his shoulder.

She hummed a sleepy greeting and wriggled tighter against his side.

He couldn’t help but laugh at his sleepy love, so powerful and inspiring at any other time, she was an adorable mess this morning. “Sleep well?”

She offered another non-verbal response and shook her head, rogue strands of frizzy curls tickling his nose.

“It will be a while before I have water ready for coffee. Why don’t you go lie down a little more?” He pulled back a little to try to look into her eyes. 

“Mm, no, ‘s’alright. Missed you.”

_Maker…_

“I missed you too.”

“I had a dream you—we had to fight… I think they were nugs? It was awful.”

“Nugs?”

“You know, little pig-rodent things… with… those hands—Maker, why do they have fingers?”

He burst out laughing before he caught himself. That couldn’t be the dream that had her thrashing about in her sleep! “I—I know what nugs are. Why was it awful?”

She grimaced and yawned. “I… I don’t really remember. I just—“ She yawned again, stretching as much as she could without leaving the warmth of the cloak. “It just was. I had this terrible feeling of… dread. And I think they got you…” 

She was pouting in her sleepy distress. It was adorable.

“Well, there are no nugs here. Just a couple of grazing Inquisition horses.”

“And a big Fereldan hound,” she muttered, pulling in for a cozy embrace.

“Hound, hm?”

“Mm. My big, snuggly pup.” She looked up into his eyes, the sleep cleared from her own and replaced with a playful glint.

He chuckled warmly and kissed her, debating the wisdom of licking her cheek like a dog’s kiss but immediately dismissing the idea as too immature. 

She rose up on her tiptoes and lapped his chin once, quickly, before ducking away giggling. “Puppy kisses!” she called as she ducked back into their tent.

He stood aghast. The Inquisitor had just… Did that really just happen?

“That’s how you’re supposed to kiss in Ferelden, right?” she teased as she reemerged from the tent with her riding cloak.

He groaned and shook his head. “I thought I already showed you Fereldan kissing. Or do I need to demonstrate again?” He caught her around the waist and pulled her close.

“Are you referring to this—“ She returned his kiss with tenderness. “Or to the other things you’ve done to me with that mouth?” she purred.

“Uh…” His brain froze in reaction to her brazen flirting. Clearly her nuggish nightmares hadn’t kept her from getting enough sleep to put her in a good mood.

Or maybe she had been crying out with something other than fear… The unbidden thought brought an unwelcome blush to his cheeks.

She giggled. “You’re blushing! I can guess the answer, then!”

Before he could react in defense of his own honor, she’d twisted away and set to breaking camp.

“In a hurry to get out of here, Lady Trevelyan? Is my campsite not to your liking?” Maker, it felt good to play like the carefree lad he’d never been.

“You did say we would make our destination today. It’s been so long since I’ve looked forward to anything other than returning to Skyhold after a long campaign. I guess I’m a little excited.” She paused in her experienced demolition of the tent. “And this seems so… out of character, almost, for you—taking the Inquisitor out on personal business, leaving your duties to your lieutenants… I’m quite curious!”

He smiled. “Then I’ll get a move on with breakfast while you finish tearing down. Then we can move out sooner.”

“Perfect!” She flashed a smile and returned to her work.

It _was_ rather out of character, he had to admit. Shirking duty—no, he wasn’t letting his responsibilities fall by the wayside. He’d made proper arrangements, and it was an ideal time to take a break: Ashara was almost fully recovered, though not yet strong enough to return to the field, and Ser Barris had things well under control with training and handling the daily reports. It was a welcome and needed break from routine and self-denial.

“And if that smile is any indication of how good this surprise is, I’m even more excited!”

“I hope it is as good as that and more,” he said.

***** ****** ****** ***** *****  
Their ride was easy, the impending storm holding off for the time being.

The lake came into view suddenly, many of the old landmarks lost to time and the region’s unfortunate circumstances. He dismounted and tied their mounts to the gnarled oak--ancient even when his parents had been children--that still stood near the rocky outcroppings that marked the edge of the old Rutherford farmstead. Things seemed strangely untouched since he’d last sat on the old dock alone with his boyhood thoughts. It was almost as though he was suddenly young and innocent again; the ravages of the decades since he’d last stood here melted away.

It seemed only fitting that he brought her here now. She meant so much to him, just as his memories of this place did.

“Where are we?” she asked as he led her out to the end of the short dock to the spot he’d once thought of as his personal sanctuary. 

“You walk into danger every day. I wanted to take you away from that, if only for a moment," he offered by way of explanation. “I grew up not far from here.” His voice dropped into reverie. “This place was always quiet.”

“Did you come here often?”

“I loved my siblings, but they were very loud. I would come here to clear my head. Of course, they always found me eventually.”

_And pushed me in, or teased me for being “sullen”._

_Or Mia would bring me blackberries to trick me into doing her share of the milking just to get the fresh cream._

_Or Rosalie would ask for a story, or Bran would want to spar…_

She must have caught the look on his face. “You were happy here.” There was tenderness in her voice.

“I was.” He looked at her with gratitude and affection. “I still am.”

Her lips parted just slightly with her caught breath as his words settled in. “It’s beautiful,” she smiled. 

They stood there for a while without speaking, enjoying the view. The sound of his heart pounding in his chest was almost as loud as the water lapping the shore and the distant rumbles of thunder.

His hand drifted almost of its own accord to the pocket where he kept his only personal treasure. He shared the memory: 

“The last time I was here was the day I left for Templar training.” 

His heart racing, he held out the coin in his open palm for her to see—it was the first time he’d shown it to anyone. 

“My brother gave me this. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck." 

_Since then, it's never been farther from me than an arm's reach. Through everything, it's been right here._

“Templars are not supposed to carry such things. Our faith should see us through.” Irony weighted his “faith”.

She looked up at him. “I don’t think it worked. You haven’t been that fortunate.”

She wasn’t wrong, but: “I should have died during the Blight. Or at Kirkwall. Or Haven. Take your pick. And yet… I made it back here.” _To sanctuary. To you._

She looked at the coin briefly, then turned her eyes back to his.

_Now or never, Rutherford._

He shuffled nervously toward her, averting his eyes for a moment to steel himself. “Humor me,” he said, looking back at her, more deeply now. “We don’t know what you’ll face before the end. This can’t hurt.” 

He tried to press the little disk into her hand. She stared back at him, eyes wet, wide, incredulous.

“I don’t need luck,” she tried to joke through an audibly tightening throat. “I’m good at getting myself out of trouble.”

“And getting into it,” he replied with a chuckle. “I’ve read the reports of your little adventures.” He stepped closer and held her gaze.

She bit her lip. “Keep it. I don’t want your luck to run out.”

“Nor do I,” he drawled. “Not when I finally have some.”

She smiled and tilted her head up to kiss him. 

“But, still…” He folded her long fingers over the coin, held now between them.

The lake slapped at the old wooden pier in a secret rhythm, percussion to the song sung by the frogs and the birds he had never been able to identify by name. The mist that had begun to rise with the sun’s setting, blurred the view of the trees on the shore, framing her in clarity.

Clarity. The perfect metaphor for how he felt as he held her close. 

He had offered her his heart and now the lingering fear in the pit of his heart has slipped away. She held his vulnerability and apprehensions in her calloused, Fade-touched hands, and he could feel the tension releasing.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she murmured against his neck as she pulled deeper into the embrace.

She took a shaky breath and raised her fist to press it between their chests, the coin and all it symbolized, held there. 

He would never be able to articulate, even to himself, what it meant to him.

“Good. I know it’s foolish, but… I’m glad.”

They pulled closer, the coin still clinched in her fist at her heart, and kissed long and slow. Only the thunder, now on top of them, pulled them apart. They rushed for cover, his fortune now safely tucked away near her heart.


End file.
